My Daughter, After All
by Lucinda
Summary: Faith's father has just found out that his baby girl's going to prison. He can't stay away any longer.
1. My Daughter, After All

author: Lucinda  
  
rating: pg13  
  
main character: Tom Cassidy  
  
minor appearances by Cain Marco, mentions of Faith (the Slayer)  
  
Disclaimer: I hold no legal rights to Faith (creation of Joss Whedon for Buffy the Vampire Slayer) or Tom and Cain - creations of Marvel Comics.  
  
Distribution: Paula, Twisting the Hellmouth, Quickfics, Wic - anyone else ask. If I've said yes for a previous short BtVS/X-Men crossover, you can have this if you want.  
  
note: for those unfamiliar with the character of Black Tom Cassidy, he is an Irish criminal (and mutant). His partner in crime is the Juggernaut (Cain Marko) and they have had a fairly long and colorful criminal career spanning much of Europe. Tom has a cousin named Sean Cassidy (Banshee of the X-Men) who worked for Interpol for a while.  
  
set during season 4(BtVS), after Faith turned herself into the police in Los Angeles. After OZT, Before the High Evolutionary tried to muck things up.  
  
Tom Cassidy stared at the paper in front of him, the words blurring together. It had arrived with a short, angry note from Eileen, his ex wife, and the mother of his only child. At least, as far as he knew, Faith was his only child. They'd had a painful and messy divorce when Faith was still in diapers, and Eileen had left the country, moving from Ireland to America. Part of that had been to get away from the memories of their time together. That had hurt, especially since he couldn't argue with some of her words. He was a criminal, after all. She hadn't even known about the mutant part at the time...  
  
There had been a newspaper clipping in with the short note. Just a little article, very short, with a picture of his daughter. Apparently, Faith had killed someone, and had turned herself in to a Los Angeles police station. Her dark hair and eyes reminded him of himself, but her nose and mouth were all Eileen. A murderer? His daughter?  
  
It was the oddest feeling, as if someone had just hit him with some sort of stun gun, leaving his insides twitching and numb. Faith had killed someone. His daughter was a murderer... Well, he was hardly a man able to cast stones for her deeds, he was a wanted thief, mercenary with a fine disregard for laws and government boundaries, and had several ties to the Irish Republican Army. But while there had been violence in his deeds, none of them had been solely aimed at killing people, that had always been a side effect.  
  
What sort of woman had his daughter grown up to be? Would she have done better or worse if he'd been allowed to have more of a part in her life than postcards and a Christmas and birthday gift each year? Did she have a firm code of personal beliefs? Did she believe in God? Did Faith make plans for the future that had now been shattered?  
  
A large hand rested on his shoulder, and a deep voice asked a question. "Who's the girl?"   
  
"My daughter. Faith." The answer slipped out as a soft whisper, crackling with pain and confusion.  
  
There was a pause as Cain looked down at the article, reading it over Tom's head. "Murder? What happened?"  
  
Tom shook his head, uncertain if he'd even be able to put everything into words. "I don't know. I don't know if it was accidental, or deliberate. I don't know if whoever it was deserved to die or not. All I know is that my precious baby girl is going to be sent to prison. She turned into a woman, and now they're locking her up."  
  
"We could bust her out. No ordinary prison built that can keep me in or out." The offer was made with a little smile that hinted at Cain's glee in being the Juggernaught, ten feet of indestructible muscle. The man had been hit by missiles and it had done no more than fling him backwards.  
  
"That might be something to consider. I think… I think I'd like to go to California, visit my daughter. It's been far to long since I've seen my baby girl. And if they aren't taking good care of her, we can break her out." Tom looked very thoughtful. "She's changed a lot since she was a year old. Time to meet the grown up version."  
  
And the Lord have mercy on them if they'd been treating her badly, because he surely wouldn't. One hand gripped his shillelagh, and Tom Cassidy smiled. Faith was his family, after all, and you just didn't turn your back on your own flesh and blood.  
  
End My Daughter, After All.  
  
footnote: a Shillelagh is a type of club, originating in Ireland. Tom Cassidy's Shillelagh (as depicted in the comics) is of a length so that when he is standing relaxed, one hand rests on the top of the Shillelagh, and it touches the ground. 


	2. My Daughter, the Jailbird

author: Lucinda  
  
rating: pg/pg13  
  
main characters: Tom Cassidy, Cain Marco (the Juggernaut), Faith  
  
disclaimer: I hold no legal rights to anyone from Marvel Comics or the television series 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer'.  
  
distribution: please ask first.  
  
notes: Post season 4 BtVS/season 1 AtS, so Faith is in Prison.  
  
  
  
  
  
Arranging a trip to California was a bit more complicated and expensive for Tom and Cain than it would be for normal people. Partly because they were wanted criminals. Partly because of Cain's sheer mass, although none of it was fat. Just about a half ton of pure muscle and bone, far stronger and more solid than mortal flesh had any right to be. But then, maybe Cain wasn't quite mortal now, not since he'd become the Juggernaut. It made a few more complications to air travel.  
  
But he wouldn't just leave his daughter to linger in jail. Not unless she was content to be there, although he couldn't imagine why that might be. Tom would go see his daughter. And maybe just take a little time to figure out what she'd done to get put there while they were traveling...  
  
"So... was Faith a bad, bad girl, or just misunderstood?" Cain's question was curious, not quite insulting. "Because it isn't exactly like her life's been full of good examples."  
  
Tom sighed as he looked over the criminal record. Technically, he shouldn't have it. But he'd hired a data specialist to find everything that he could on his daughter, medical file, criminal record, hell, even her driving record. "It looks like she learned to drive from her mother. Speeding, improper parking, a few other things that say she drives like she owns the road. Her medical file... she's had a lot of injuries, over half of which she didn't go to hospitals to get treated, but they've found the scars. Things they've listed as wild animal bites, and claw wounds. Signs of having had bones broken. The poor girl was in a coma for eight months. As for a criminal record... They've charged her with multiple counts of murder, but no witnesses. Circumstantial evidence at best. It's a damn mess, and there's no reason that it couldn't be fought, probably overturned. Except that it doesn't look like she's got a barrister on her side... Might want to look into that."  
  
"And where would a pair of internationally wanted felons like ourselves hire a lawyer?" Cain snorted, finding the idea amusing.  
  
Tom sighed, shaking his head. "A good point. They'd have to be a bit on the darker side of the law, if not basket in hand down the path to the place o' fire an brimstone."   
  
"How do you know Hell isn't frozen?" Cain tossed the question out, possibly an effort to keep from worrying about the flight. Cain hated flying, always afraid the plane would crash, although he'd just walk away from it if there was a crash. Come to think of it, he'd been in a few, which might explain his concern.  
  
The rest of the flight was spent in a debate over the possible geography and population of Hell. Surely there would be politicians, and some criminals, maybe some bad fathers, and probably assorted barristers. Maybe primary school teachers and ex wives. It might not have been cheerful, but it did distract them from worrying about the flight.  
  
They managed to arrive in Los Angeles and slip out of the airport without running into any problems with security or police. Which was good, they weren't here to attract a lot of attention. Tom just wanted to see his daughter. It would be the first time in years, the first time he'd ever had a chance to actually speak to her. It shouldn't work that way, a man shouldn't have to wait until his daughter was nearly a woman grown before talking to her. Definitely counted as a woman grown, if she was in prison. No, this was not the way things should have gone. But try as he might, he couldn't think of a single thing that caused it, no, it was a series of things. A series of misfortune, tragedy, and his basic inability to find and keep a normal job. If not his political views, it was his mutation. Eventually, he'd just stopped trying to walk the straight and narrow. Had it been like that for Faith?  
  
It was a bit trickier finding a place to stay that wouldn't ask too many questions and was not such a miserable wretched place that they'd be tempted to level as an act of community service. By the end, it was a small place, a bit shabby, but apparently free of vermin. Tom seemed to be the only person stating there that looked quite human... It must be some sort of mutant refuge. Walking past a seven foot tall slender figure covered in bronze scales carrying on a conversation with something equally tall with a pair of curving horns and shoulders that a rugby player would cringe from, their exchanges sounding like little more than snarls and growls, he amended that. A refuge for foreign mutants.  
  
He went to the prison, but entered alone. There was a small radio link that he wore, so that he could let Cain know if he ran into trouble, but he planned to go inside alone. His appearance wasn't nearly as memorable as his partner, after all.  
  
Finally, after a number of delays, including a search for weapons, which he wasn't carrying, they let him into a small room with what looked to be the heavy, bullet-proof glass. It was also resistant to super strong fists and fire blasts, as he recalled. He'd encountered the stuff before. And then she was brought into the room. Faith, his daughter. She'd grown so much, but then again, she'd only been nine when he'd seen her before. She looked surprised, as if she'd expected someone else to be sitting there instead of him.  
  
"You aren't Angel. You're... but you couldn't be..." She moved closer, eyeing him with a mix of confusion and suspicion.  
  
Tom sighed, leaning his elbow on the table and his cheek on his hand. "I'm your father, Tom. Your Ma and I... we had a lot of arguments, and she left. Said I was a bad influence, and that you'd do better without me around you... Then, I found out that you were here."  
  
"Guess keeping you away didn't help that much." Faith sighed, her dark hair hanging in limp locks around her face. She had her mother's little sad smile, but her eyes were like his own. "What made her think you'd be so bad?"  
  
He shrugged, looking around in a casual attempt to figure out how closely their words were being monitored. Prisons always monitored what their inmates were doing. "Let's say, I haven't lived a saint's life. Bounced from a few jobs, shady friends... I'm pretty far from an example of virtue."  
  
"Right... how bad could it be? I'm in for murder, and apparently, you haven't done anything bad enough to take you in for long." She looked... bitter and almost lost.  
  
Tom just chuckled, shaking his head slowly as he did. "I'm not such a fool as to work alone. While the charges against me aren't direct murder, there's quite a few of them. Lot of people wanting to catch ol' Tom Cassidy... But you can get out of almost any prison, and the ones that I can't, my partner can get me out of. If you want out, we can manage it."  
  
Her eyes widened, and she made a low whistle. "Damn, my dad's famous. Infamous... whatever. Guess you have done a few things. But..." She paused, staring at her hand, which had slowly clenched into a fist.  
  
"No..." She spoke softly, barely loud enough for it to carry. "I need to sort out a few things, figure out a couple things. Where things got out of control. There are some people who'd like to get rid of me... they can't do anything while I'm here. It would attract too much attention. So, I've got all the time I need to think about my mistakes. There were quite a few."  
  
Tom blinked, looking carefully at her in an effort to judge her sincerity. "You want to stay here? For the thinking time?"  
  
"I did some things that I shouldn't have... got carried away. And then he used those things, dragged me in before I'd even had a chance to think. Now, I got time to think. Really think, because you don't do that in a coma." She looked as if she had a few dark memories bothering her.  
  
Tom placed his hand on the glass, as if he could just reach through it and touch her. Part of him wanted to figure out this 'he' was, and why he'd tried to use his daughter. Another part just wanted to somehow make it all better, which he knew was utterly impossible. But it might not be quite so impossible to figure out who might want to get rid of her… Maybe have a few words with them. "Then sort things out. See if you can figure out your missteps, because I never could. I'll come back, visit you again. And if you change your mind, we'll get you out of here."  
  
"Thanks. Nobody''s offered to spring me before..." Faith smiled, faint, but it was real. "Dad. I can call you that, right?"  
  
He smiled, enjoying the sound of the word. It was long overdue. "Yes, that would be good. You are my daughter, after all."  
  
Tom Cassidy felt oddly introspective as he made his way out of the prison where his daughter had chosen to stay for now. He would go back again, visit her. Try to get to know his daughter, even if only a little. Try to understand these things that had gone wrong in her life, and why she felt only prison would be a safe enough place to take the time to think.  
  
end My Daughter, the Jailbird. 


	3. My Daughter the Slayer?

author: Lucinda  
  
rating: pg13  
  
main character: Tom Cassidy and Angel  
  
minor appearances by Cain Marco, mentions of Faith (the Slayer)  
  
Disclaimer: I hold no legal rights to Faith (creation of Joss Whedon for Buffy the Vampire Slayer) or Tom and Cain - creations of Marvel Comics.  
  
Distribution: Paula, Twisting the Hellmouth, Quickfics, Wic - anyone else ask. If I've said yes for a previous short BtVS/X-Men crossover, you can have this if you want.  
  
note: for those unfamiliar with the character of Black Tom Cassidy, he is an Irish criminal (and mutant). His partner in crime is the Juggernaut (Cain Marko) and they have had a fairly long and colorful criminal career spanning much of Europe. Tom has a cousin named Sean Cassidy (Banshee of the X-Men) who worked for Interpol for a while.  
  
set during season 4(BtVS), after Faith turned herself into the police in Los Angeles. After OZT, Before the High Evolutionary tried to muck things up.  
  
***  
  
Tom sighed as he returned from the prison, having just managed to sneak a glimpse at the visitors log for the prisoners. His daughter was only listed as having had a total of three other visitors ever: a detective K. Lockley of the L.A.P.D., someone named Wesley Wyndham-Price, and someone listed as Angel something undecipherable. He'd finally found a better sample of unreadable handwriting than his own carefully practiced scrawl. Naturally, that raised his suspicions. Why was this 'Angel' trying to not have a legible last name? What was 'Angel' hiding?  
  
And just what sort of interest did this 'Angel' have in Faith anyhow? Was Angel a girl, or a man's name?  
  
Just thinking about it made his stomach churn, and his grip on his shillelagh was white-knuckled. It was only years of practice avoiding attention that kept up the pretended limp that he'd been using as an excuse for the shillelagh anyhow. They wouldn't take a man's cane when he needed it to walk, would they?  
  
Cain was waiting outside, leaning against a wall and glaring at the whole world, as if daring something, anything to make trouble. Unsurprisingly, the area around him was very quiet. The only times that normal humans ever tried to cause trouble with Cain was when there were large groups of heavily armed military men, preferably with a tank or two. They still lost, even with the tanks, but it generally made a huge mess and normally seemed to act as stress relief. Unless Cain was just in a bad mood and everything made him even angrier - then things could get a bit ugly.  
  
"How'd it go in there?"  
  
Tom sort of shrugged, not quite able to figure out why the visitors log had left him so angry. The suspicion was easy enough to understand - he didn't want any other criminals involved with his daughter. But it also inspired this sort of hurt feeling, like an emotional bruise, that left him puzzled. "She's only had three visitors, and one was one o' the detectives that locked her away."  
  
"Huh." Cain moved away from the wall, and they started walking back towards the hotel. "Does this mean that we need a plan to get her out?"  
  
"Not yet, my friend." His grip on the shillelagh had changed, so that it looked less like a cane and more like the proper cudgel. "She said that she needs a bit of time to think, and that's the only place that she feels safe enough to do it. I had the feeling that she got involved with some hefty trouble."  
  
"What sort of trouble?" Cain's question held a second question - was this a trouble that they would meddle with?  
  
"I don't rightly know what sort of trouble yet. But it might be that the other two visitors may hold a bit of a clue. One was signed in as 'Angel', the last name something too illegible to make out. The other one was a Wesley Wyndham-Price." Tom was already trying to figure out the most effective way to learn more about these people, and what possible connection they had with his daughter.  
  
"Probably easier to start with the second one. The last name sounds upper crust, British ancestry, either from over seas, New England, or the South. Doesn't sound like he comes from Westhaven, I'm pretty sure I knew who all the have's were around there." Cain frowned, his hands moving as if crushing an unseen object, and his knuckles crackled like gunshots.  
  
"Yes, that makes sense. If we find this Wesley, then he can explain just what his connection is with my daughter." Tom had all sorts of scenarios flitting through his mind, from a devoted boyfriend to just a friend, to some sort of legal student or state person feeling sorry for the criminal to one of the people who had dragged her into the whole mess to begin with. And if this Wesley was responsible fro Faith's troubles…  
  
"Do you think that Wyndham-Price knows this Angel?" Cain's rumbled musings caught Tom's attention.  
  
"Well, 'tis a possibility, I suppose, although it wouldn't be wise to count on it. They don't visit at the same time, an' that's the only thing that we can be certain of just now." Tom considered the chances, drifting away from the thoughts of the many ways they could ruin or end the life of whoever had dragged his girl into trouble. "If they do, it might explain why they both visit her."  
  
"Good points. Where do we start looking for him? This is a big city, and I don't know it at all."  
  
Tom smiled as he caught sight of a teenage girl in a little tiny shirt and pants that barely rose high enough on her hips to stay on, with a slender gold chain encircling her waist as she half screamed at some unfortunate on the other end of the connection. "Why not start with the extremely simple? We can see if he'd listed in the telephone book, and if he is, we can go pay him a bit of a visit."  
  
Chuckling, Cain looked at the phone booth. "So, there was a phone book back at the hotel, might cause less of a scene that way."  
  
"True enough. And if it takes us a while, then we aren't going to have to make people wait. It would put a kink in out plans if we had to worry about the police trying to capture us, and they would be a nuisance." Tom chuckled, for a moment wishing that he was as bullet proof as his partner.  
  
Once they were back in the little hotel, it only took a few minutes to have in their possession both a current phone book and a Los Angeles city map. Then, Tom started searching through the W's while Cain flipped through the few channels on the hotel television, eventually settling on a wrestling entertainment program. "Found him, now to figure out where this address is and how we get there from here."  
  
"That's the whole point of the map."  
  
"The whole…. Of course that's the point of the map! Now, can you help me figure out where Azucar Street is?" Tom glared at Cain, frustrated by trying to find anything in this unfamiliar, chaotic city. "He's got an apartment at 437 Azucar, so all we have to do is figure out where it is and drop in."  
  
A bus trip later, and they discovered that Azucar Street was safe enough, slightly shabby neighborhood that looked to have started the slow slide towards decay. They kept a wary eye out for either law enforcement or mutant related conflict as they walked up to the seven story brick building. People walked along, not paying attention to anyone else, too caught up in their own lives to care about their neighbors.  
  
"I hope this place has solid floors." Cain muttered, looking at the building. "Otherwise I'm going to end up doing a surprise inspection of the furnace."   
  
To their relief, the floors proved to be quite sound, although a few of the boards did creak as Cain stepped on them. They had only a little trouble finding the proper apartment, and then Tom had the lock on the door picked in scarcely longer than it would have taken someone with a key to unlock and open their door.  
  
"Not a very good lock." Tom shook his head, half smiling. "I'd be ashamed to call something like that my own."  
  
They walked inside, looking around with curiosity. There were several large shelves of leather bound books, many of which looked old and scuffed. On the coffee table was a volume with a raised carving of a hideous snarling face that resembled a medieval gargoyle. A rack of swords and axes was beside the window, as well as a loaded crossbow.   
  
"This looks a bit odd." Cain muttered, looking at the weapons. "Nice blades though."  
  
"Demon compendiums? Book of the Dead? Books about magic and curses? Is this one of those daft souls who is drowning in those role-play games?" Tom's question fell into the apartment.  
  
Raising one of the swords, Cain peered at a few dark spots near the hilt. "I don't think he's playing. There's something crusted on here, and it's a sort of orange color."  
  
"Orange?" Tom blinked moving closer to inspect the sword for himself. "What would leave something orange on a sword blade?"  
  
"Another question to ask this guy. As soon as he gets here." Cain returned the sword to the third position on the rack, and went to lean against the wall, not entirely certain the somewhat battered gray couch would support his weight.  
  
Eventually, Tom got bored waiting, and went to explore the kitchen, deciding to make some tea. Cain started flipping through the channels, grumbling at the discovery that this guy didn't even have cable. Or any interesting videos. And so the pair of them impatiently waited.  
  
It was several hours later when there was the sound of rattling keys outside the door. Having never been relocked after Tom and Cain went inside, the door simply swung inwards when the key was put into the doorknob, revealing a lean man with dark circled eyes, dressed in a pair of wrinkled slacks and a dark button up shirt. He looked up, spotting the two of them and tensed, alarm clear in his eyes.  
  
Suspecting that Wesley might bolt, Tom lunged forward, grabbing the man and dragging him inside. "Oh no you don't. You've got a few questions to answer."  
  
As he dragged the younger man inside, he was rewarded by a sharp punch to his stomach as Wesley tried to escape the grip, and another to the jaw that left him seeing sparks.  
  
"Enough!" Cain roared as he grabbed Wesley, dragging him out of Tom's grip and holding him in the air.  
  
"Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my apartment?" Wesley Wyndham-Price glared at the pair of them, the anger in his eyes almost concealing the fear.  
  
"The gentleman dangling you above the floor is Cain Marko, and I'm Tom Cassidy." Tom rubbed at his jaw for a moment, trying to figure out where this man had learned to deliver such a strong punch. "We've got a couple questions for you."  
  
This didn't seem to surprise Wesley, although it was actually a bit disappointing that he didn't seem to recognize either name. His next words made it even more clear that he didn't know who they were. "Who are you working for, and what makes you think that I'll tell you anything?"  
  
"Who are we working for?" Tom repeated blankly. "We're not working for anyone. I'm here on a more personal matter. How do you know Faith?"  
  
"Faith? This is about Faith?" The man seemed entirely surprised, and while the apparent levels of confusion didn't drop, he did seem slightly less angry and afraid. "What is your connection to her?"  
  
"She's my daughter." Tom glared at Wesley. This was certainly easier when people were terrified of him and his partner.  
  
"Your wha…?" For a moment, the dangling man had an expression of complete blank shock, before it turned into an angry glare. "Then where have you been all her life, you miserable wretch?"  
  
"Where have I been? Her ma thought that I would be a bad influence, so she divorced me when Faith was just a little girl. Now, how do you know her, and why is my daughter sitting in prison?" Tom glared, one hand gripping his shillelagh.  
  
"Faith is a Slayer, and I'm her Watcher, or supposed to be anyhow." The words were soft, barely audible. A series of emotions flickered through the man's eyes, but Tom couldn't quite decipher them.  
  
"A what? If you're one of those fellows that follows lasses around to peek through their windows…" Tom left the rest of the sentence dangling, certain that the other man could fill in something sufficiently threatening.  
  
"Slayer… I think there was something about that on the cave walls." Cain's low rumble startled them both. "At the cavern of Cyttorak."  
  
"What? Could someone explain what a Slayer is and why he's calling my daughter one?" Tom glared around the room, feeling the entire encounter slipping out of his control.  
  
"The cavern of Cyttorak? I know there's a reference to that in one of those volumes…" Twisting slightly, he peered at Cain. "Could you please put me down?"  
  
With a small shrug, Cain dropped him. Wesley landed on his feet with the sort of familiarity that spoke of experience with falling and dropping, and made his way to the set of shelves beside the door, pulling down a thin volume of deep red leather. Flipping through pages, he was muttering things under his breath that Tom couldn't quite decipher. "Was that the cavern of sacrifice, which would have had a large black stone alter with a set of bronze inlays on the floor, or the cavern of the mysteries, which should have had a large red stone, and possibly a skeleton of the last High Priest of Cyttorak?"  
  
"There was a stone." The words were clipped, tense.  
  
"Which would mean…" Wesley paused, glancing again at Cain, his eyes traveling up the huge size of him. "Yes, that would definitely explain that. Imbued with the power of Cyttorak, the living juggernaut which no mortal can stop. This makes things a bit more complicated…"  
  
"And how does any of that connect to my daughter?" Tom demanded, glaring from Cain to Wesley.  
  
"In the last battle against the High Priest of Cyttorak, there was a Slayer leading the army that fought him. The army attacked the champion of Cyttorak, recorded as He-Who-Wore-the-Crimson-Gem, and while he was busy, the Slayer attacked the high priest, destroying his vampire honor guard and eventually killing him." Wesley paused, glancing back at the book. "It is recorded that when the priest died, his death cries caught the attention of the champion, who then turned to try to destroy her. The cavern collapsed, and the remnants of the army retreated, assuming their foe defeated by the collapse. Faith is now a Slayer."  
  
"A cave in defeating a Juggernaut?" One of Cain's eyebrows rose disbelievingly.  
  
"That is the assumption that they made. And the Champion of Cyttorak was not seen again." Wesley shrugged, placing the book back on the shelf. "The Slayer is a young woman, chosen by destiny as a defender of humanity. I have always assumed that mutants would be included in that 'humanity' as well. The descriptions… the recent ones were devised in the Middle Ages, and occasionally translated, other descriptions are far older. Divine Protector, Hunter of Evil, Defender of the Living, Beloved of Artemis, Maiden Warrior, Blessed Warrior… Whatever the title, it is the sacred duty and calling of a Slayer to fight against vampires and demons, to defend people from supernatural evils."  
  
"There are some people that would consider mutants to be in that category." Tom leaned back on the couch, trying to figure out what this man's feeling about mutants actually was.  
  
"mmmmm." Wesley meandered to the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of tea, apparently trying to figure out how to put something into words. Finally, he settled into his blue recliner, and sipped at the tea.  
  
"Mutants are people, with all the inherent variation of goals, motivation, and reaction. I certainly think that some mutants are dangerous, like that Sabertooth maniac. One of the Watchers tried to call him a demon, but he didn't match any known type… Or Magneto and his genetic based prejudice, backed by terrifying power. Others… well, there are probably the full range of criminal behaviors present in mutants as well as humans, but that simply isn't normally the area of a Slayer's duty." Wesley tried to explain.  
  
"Because…?" Tom prompted, now quite curious.  
  
Wesley looked at him with an odd small smile. "Would I be wrong in presuming that you are a mutant who's past contains some less than legal activity?"  
  
"For discussion, let's consider that. Are you likely to try to send a Slayer after me?" Tom wasn't quite certain if he believed in this whole Slayer thing. But the man had known about the Ruby, so maybe he did know something.  
  
"There's a basic list of questions. If the answer to them is yes, you might be the sort of danger that a Slayer might be sent against." Wesley sat down his tea and began reciting a litany. "Do you intend to trigger the Apocalypse, in the sense of the end of days? Do you intend to wipe humanity from the face of the earth? Do you eat human flesh, blood, bones or souls? Do you seek to call upon ancient dark or chaotic forces to gain probable power, wealth, and the destruction of a vast and ever-growing list of those who oppose you? Do you practice human sacrifice, normally in sorcerous or pagan rituals?"  
  
Feeling rather stunned and faintly nauseous at the list of questions, Tom shook his head and uttered a weak "no. Do people really…?"  
  
"Mostly demons, but yes, there are some humans who try such things." Wesley sighed again, and rubbed at his temple, as if trying to force back a headache. "That is part of the reason why Slayers have Watchers, people who are supposed to be their guides and teachers."  
  
"Based on who's suggestions?" Cain asked, looking rather unhappy, which could have been anger or equal dismay over the questions.  
  
"There has been a Watcher's Council in various forms since the earliest known histories. The current one is based in London, and has been for several centuries. I am… or was supposed to be Faith's Watcher, her light in the darkness of the battle." Wesley's voice sounded oddly flat, as if this was familiar and painful territory for him.  
  
"What happened? She's in prison and you're here. What went wrong?" Tom demanded, glancing once more at the rack of weapons. Was that orange crusting demon blood?  
  
"I suppose… part of it was that I shouldn't have been sent to be a solo Watcher yet. I should have been sent to study with an experienced Watcher in the field, as it were. And the way that it was handled… There were two Slayers in Sunnydale, and when the Watcher of one of them…" Wesley began to falter his way through an explanation. "Well, let's just say that my orders weren't to study with him but to go and take over as the Watcher of the Slayers. It didn't work very well. I had very little real world experience, neither of them would listen to me if I told them that it was a lovely, sunny day, and Faith ended up emotionally isolated and fell in with a rather uniquely devious villain who wanted… well, he wanted to gain more power, and he had a very effective plan. Faith fell under his influence, and… bad things happened. She was injured and hospitalized for a while, and now she's…. well, now she's in prison."  
  
Tom frowned, thinking back to his visit to Faith. "She mentioned something about a few people who'd want her removed. I assume those are the villains that a Slayer is supposed to fight? All those vampires and demons?"  
  
"Mostly." Wesley sipped at his tea, and his hand shook as he put the cup back down. "But… the Council is an organization, and as with any organization, it eventually holds politics. Power-plays. People who think they're above the rules that constrain everyone else."  
  
"Are you suggesting that some of those people might be the Watchers?" Tom sucked in a deep breath, suddenly feeling very cold.  
  
"Implying. Pointing. All of that." Wesley removed his glasses, placing them beside his cup in order to rub at his eyes. "Most of the Watchers in the field would never dream of such a possibility. They go out to risk themselves for the protection of the world, without a Slayer. They see the Council as one of the few places that this whole nightmarish mess can be mentioned without people deciding that they're raving lunatics. Unfortunately, their dedication to duty means that they often have a fuzzy or inaccurate opinion of the people in administration."  
  
"Of course, of course." Tom forced himself to speak the words instead of snarling. He managed to keep from smiting Wesley as the bearer of bad news, reminding himself that killing the messenger accomplished nothing. Things tuned over in his mind, and he tried to figure out how likely these Watchers were to be spying on Faith. His attention was caught by deep popping noises, like a cross between the crackling of knuckles and the uncorking of a wine bottle.  
  
"Who runs this Council right now?"  
  
"The current Head of the Council is Quentin Travers. It was by his order that I was assigned to Faith." There was a small dark gleam in Wesley's eyes, as if he'd caught some inkling of the turnings of Tom's thoughts. "I doubt that he'd have any preparation that could deal with the two of you."  
  
  
  
"No, he probably wouldn't." Tom's voice was almost a purr as he considered options of how to deal with the man who considered his daughter an inconvenience to his grip of power. As soon as they had a good plan, Mr. Travers wouldn't know what had hit him. "I think we've done all that we came for here, Mr. Wyndham-Price. It's been interesting to meet you."  
  
"Yes, I suppose that's one way to describe tonight. Be safe, I suppose, and… well, good luck in talking to Faith." Wesley nodded a cautious farewell as they left the apartment.  
  
"It's not our safety that needs worrying over." Tom's words were too low for Wesley to hear, but they caused his partner to chuckle darkly as they left the apartment building.  
  
"Watch yourself, Travers. Your time is up."  
  
End My Daughter the Slayer? 


	4. My Poor Daughter

author: Lucinda  
  
rating: pg13  
  
main character: Tom Cassidy  
  
appearances by Cain Marco, mentions of Faith (the Slayer)  
  
Disclaimer: I hold no legal rights to Faith (creation of Joss Whedon for Buffy the Vampire Slayer) or Tom and Cain - creations of Marvel Comics.  
  
Distribution: Paula, Twisting the Hellmouth, Wic - anyone else ask. If I've said yes for a previous short BtVS/X-Men crossover, you can have this if you want.  
  
note: for those unfamiliar with the character of Black Tom Cassidy, he is an Irish criminal (and mutant). His partner in crime is the Juggernaut (Cain Marko) and they have had a fairly long and colorful criminal career spanning much of Europe. Tom has a cousin named Sean Cassidy (Banshee of the X-Men) who worked for Interpol for a while.  
  
set during season 4(BtVS), after Faith turned herself into the police in Los Angeles. After OZT, Before the High Evolutionary tried to muck things up.  
  
They started their way back to the small hotel, both quiet as they contemplated their talk with Wesley. Tom was trying to figure out if he believed all that talk of vampires, demons, evil sorcerers and a girl chosen by fate to fight them all - HIS daughter, chosen by fate to fight them. It definitely was some unhappy thinking.  
  
"You forgot to ask if he knew who this Angel person was." Cain rumbled.  
  
Nodding, Tom had to admit that this was true. "So I did. I was a bit thrown off by all of that about vampires and demons. Not to mention that list of questions... Do people really...?"   
  
"Some people are just twisted inside." Cain's comment entirely ignored their own activities on the wrong sides of the law. "I don't think I've met too many vampires, and I wouldn't know the difference between a demon and a mutant, but... I've met sorcerers. Some of them are pretty laughable, others... Some of them can do some serious stuff. Scary stuff."  
  
Tom had never expected Cain to consider anything particularly scary. To hear that word emerge from the nearly unstoppable Juggernaut... "How scary can they be?"  
  
"Mind control. Portals to other worlds, or strange places with orange skies and floating jellyfish things. Changing the world around them. Hell, I think it was some sort of sorcerer that made the Gem, the one that makes me... well, the Juggernaut." Cain's voice had taken on an oddly reflective note.  
  
"I thought that his book claimed it was a priest?" Tom glanced over, wondering what was going through his partner's mind.  
  
"Yeah, the books and walls claimed that it was a priest of Cyttorak, who's supposed to be some ancient god of anger, wrath and battle or something. But I don't think I want to believe there's some god-thing out there that I'm tapping into. Magic's strange enough without throwing in the idea that all those weird pagan gods and demons and goddesses might be real."  
  
Tom let himself consider that for a moment. If all the myths and legends weren't just stories to explain why there was thunder, but actually things that had really happened, or about real beings... He shuddered. "A sorcerer does sound better."  
  
For a short while, they walked in silence. Then, there was a scuffing noise, the sound of someone's shoe scraping on the sidewalk. Glancing up, Tom discovered that a group of six rather disreputable looking men had surrounded them, two of them smiling evilly.  
  
"Look at the size of that one… He's got to have lots of blood in him." The words came from a slightly smaller figure with very baggy pants and a very baggy shirt.  
  
Glancing over at Cain, Tom shook his head. "I think we're being threatened."  
  
"Hmmmm." Cain looked at them, his eyes resting for a moment on each of them. "They are trying to threaten us. Do you feel worried?"  
  
"You should feel worried." The man right in front of Tom growled, his hair close-cropped and dark, showing off the scars on the side of his head. "The two of you are going to be dinner."  
  
"Actually, he was talking to you." Tom commented, adjusting his grip so that the shillelagh was pointing at one of the men.  
  
With a growl, the man's face changed. His eyes paled to an odd yellow hue, his brow becoming thicker and heavier. As he growled at them, sharp fangs were revealed. "Talking's done, boys. Dig in."  
  
Tom pushed, and sent a burst of power through the shillelagh, feeling the wood change it from potential to active power. The ripple in the air was barely visible as it moved to the vampire. For an instant, his face contorted in pain, and then he flickered, as if being consumed by a hundred tiny flames, and fell to ashes.  
  
That was unusual.  
  
Two of them lunged towards Tom, and Cain just reached out, catching them by their shoulders. He slammed them together before hurling them across the street. They slammed into the wall at roughly the third floor, and tumbled down to the sidewalk, no longer moving.  
  
Covering his surprise, Tom looked at the three remaining vampires. "So, who's next?"  
  
The three remaining vampires just stared at them, shock clear on their faces. Words tumbled out, overlapping with each other. "That's not supposed to…." "Even a Slayer can't do that." "I'm not that dumb."  
  
In a few more seconds, the vampires were just retreating figures, frantically running away down the street.  
  
"Alright, I'm convinced." Tom shook his head, and glanced at the pile of ashes that had been a vampire just moments ago. "But what exactly…. That's not the normal reaction to the blast. What made things turn out so differently?"  
  
Cain shrugged, brushing at his arm, as if removing dust. "Aren't vampires supposed to be flammable?"  
  
"That is in the stories." Tom nodded, considering things. "Of course, there are enough different stories that you can't quite count on those to be entirely accurate. Sunlight, water, garlic, animals, graveyards… It's a complete mess."  
  
"We need a bit of clarification." Cain commented. "We could talk to Wyndham-Price again, or we could try to sort it out ourselves."  
  
"Both have their advantages and disadvantages. I think I'd rather think about it more after some coffee and some sleep." Tom sighed, and leaned on his shillelagh. It had been a very long feeling day, and he felt rather tired. The idea of Slayers and vampires seemed a lot more credible now than it had yesterday, but it still wasn't an enjoyable concept. "My poor baby girl…"  
  
"So, you think that's the sort of thing that a Slayer would have to deal with on a regular basis?" Cain stretched, rolling his shoulders. "No wonder they're supposed to have someone there to help them deal with everything."  
  
Frowning, Tom considered that point, and then Wesley Wyndham-Price again. "I don't think he was quite up to it. He seems to have tried, but… She needs better."  
  
"We could also try to remove some of the pressures on her." Cain smiled, rubbing his knuckles with a smile. "Like that Travers guy."  
  
"Indeed." Tom began to smile as well, a rather unfriendly expression. "I think we'd best start a bit of research on him."  
  
"Do we start planning a trip to England?" Cain cracked his knuckles.  
  
"Not yet. We need more of a plan, and I promised that I'd visit Faith again." Tom shook his head. Research on Travers was beginning to sound necessary. "And we don't know what sort of defenses that there might be, something that I need to take into consideration."  
  
"I hate that part." Cain muttered. "Might as well go back to the hotel."  
  
"That does sound like a plan." Tom started back along the street, leaning more on his shillelagh. He could feel his body aching. For once, he was glad that he didn't have any sort of grand destiny.  
  
End My Poor Daughter. 


	5. My Daughter's Friends

author: Lucinda

rating: pg13

fifth story in 'My Daughter' series

main character: Tom Cassidy, Faith

appearances by Cain Marco, mentions of Angel (the vampire, not the X-Man)

Disclaimer: I hold no legal rights to Faith (creation of Joss Whedon for Buffy the Vampire Slayer) or Tom and Cain - creations of Marvel Comics.

Distribution: Paula, Twisting the Hellmouth, Wic - anyone else ask. If I've said yes for a previous short BtVS/X-Men crossover, you can have this if you want.

note: for those unfamiliar with the character of Black Tom Cassidy, he is an Irish criminal (and mutant). His partner in crime is the Juggernaut (Cain Marko) and they have had a fairly long and colorful criminal career spanning much of Europe. Tom has a cousin named Sean Cassidy (Banshee of the X-Men) who worked for Interpol for a while.

set during season 4(BtVS), after Faith turned herself into the police in Los Angeles. After OZT, Before the High Evolutionary tried to muck things up.

Tom reluctantly concluded that it probably would raise too many questions if he visited Faith the day after his first trip. Maybe the American prison officials didn't know who he was, but if he drew their suspicions, it wouldn't be that hard for them to find out. If someone started efforts to take him into captivity - again - it would only inhibit his efforts to help Faith.

So he spent the next few days trying to gather information on Quentin Travers and these Watchers. An address, as much information on the building as he could, possibly an estimation on numbers and defenses.

According to his tax records, Travers worked for a private museum. An old collection of 'folklore and historical artifacts', which sounded somewhere between laughable and almost logical. Folklore, like stories of vampires and monsters? Artifacts, as in a collection of weapons, or as in magical what's-it's? The possibility of the Watchers having magical defenses did make things a bit more complicated...

"Stop pacing." Cain's voice sounded almost bored. "You're going to put me to sleep if you keep it up."

"There are too many things we don't know. Numbers, defenses, do they have magic?" He shook his head, walking across the room again.

"Just go visit your little girl, maybe she can fill in a few blanks. I can wait outside and hold up a wall."

Tom smiled, looking forward to seeing his daughter again. "That should do well then. Where did I put those radios?"

Cain chuckled as Tom searched, and then they both made their way towards the prison. Another visit with a daughter that he knew less about than he knew about his most frequent enemies. Not for the first time, it occurred to Tom that his life was strange.

The trip to the prison was tedious and uneventful. Once again, he was carefully checked for weapons, again claiming his shillelagh as a cane. By itself, a chunk of wood wouldn't be able to put a dent or crack into their reinforced glass anyhow. He wasn't certain if the warden missed the small radio in his ear or mistook it for a hearing aide, but he was finally let through to talk to Faith.

Slowly, as if he was a crippled old man, he made his way to the visitor's area, and sank into the hard chair. Faith was making her way to her own hard seat, looking better today – cleaner, almost more cheerful.

She leaned closer, and traced her finger over the glass. Her voice was soft, almost hesitant as she greeted him. "Hey dad."

"Faith." He smiled, and tapped his radio briefly, just enough that Cain would know he was safely inside. "It's good to see you again."

"I wasn't sure if you'd come back or not." She glanced down for a moment, and her eyes paused over the shillelagh before returning to his face with a half smile. "How do you like LA?"

"Mmmm. It's not too different from several other large cities that I've seen, except for the people who tried to attack us the other night." He glanced towards the guard, just far enough away to give the illusion of privacy, but placed at a good angle to read lips, if that was one of his talents. "Possibly a local gang? There were... yellow eyes."

Looking worried, she sat up, giving him a quick glance over, as if trying to look for injuries. "Those guys... They can be trouble. You didn't get hurt?"

"Now don't you worry quite that much. I had my partner with me, and Cain's a tough man to get the better of. It'll take far more than a few street toughs to manage it." He chuckled, fingers tracing the grain of his shillelagh. "But they were a surprise."

"They can be a very nasty surprise." Faith looked as if she was lost in unhappy memories for a few moments, her fingers tapping quickly against the table. Shaking her head, she looked back up, and asked "Are you sure the two of you weren't hurt?"

"More disturbed than anything else." He sighed, and wondered how she'd take his news. "I was a bit surprised that you've only had two other visitors. And the detective."

"Yeah..." Faith leaned back, her arms crossed in front of her. "I'm pretty sure Wes is feeling guilty, like the whole thing's his fault. He didn't help much, but he didn't make it all happen. And Angel..."

"Who is this Angel? A friend of yours?" He figured that there was no reason not to ask her. She might even tell him.

"Sort of. He's done some bad things before too, and he's on a brooding redemption thing. I think he'd like me to be his student in the Art of Brood." Faith shrugged, glancing away.

Tom frowned, wondering why she didn't want to talk about Angel. Were they more than friends? Lovers? Enemies? Did he have some connection with the things that she'd done? Ah, he could find out more later. "I had a few words with Wyndham-Price."

"You talked to Wesley?" There was something in Faith's voice, in her eyes. It was more than surprise, but he couldn't quite decipher it. "What did he have to say?"

"A few things about failing to measure up to an impossible task, a few things about his former employer, a fellow called Travers." Tom put one hand up, rubbing over the prominent bruise on his chin. "And he said you're something called a Slayer. We had a bit of a talk about that."

"Wait a minute..." Faith leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "Just where did you get that bruise anyhow?"

"I have the oddest feeling that Mr. Wyndham-Price thought Travers had sent me." He didn't quite answer her question. "Which reminds me... I think I'd like to go have a face to face with him."

"You and Travers?" For a moment, she looked as if she wasn't certain whether to laugh or not. Then, she looked at his hand, firmly grasping the shillelagh, and her expression changed to a rather menacing smile. "Somehow, I don't think it would be comparing stories about American food."

"No, it wouldn't." He agreed, not wanting to say too much. "Does the man have any particularly... unusual protections?"

Faith snorted. "On himself, probably not. I was told... Apparently, he thinks those sorts of things are too mumbo-jumbo and superstitious, and he won't bend his dignity that far. But the headquarters... Those have been there long before he was. There could be a few built in. Of course, the majority of them are stuffy, and pretty stuck on tradition. If it hasn't been tested and approved of for a few centuries, it's not good enough. London branch doesn't even approve of guns."

"No guns, ehhh?" Tom chuckled, thinking about that. If not guns, then that would be things like swords, or axes. Maybe staves. He could deal with those. Especially wooden weapons. "Maybe I'd best go have a talk. After all, I'm a few years overdue for a parent-teacher sort of talk. Maybe I should go straight for the administration?"

"Parent-teacher talks, huh?" Faith laughed. "This having a dad thing could be pretty interesting."

"Well, someone needs to try to look after you." He stood up, remembering that the guards were supposed to think he needed a cane for a limp. "I'll just go offer some comments about your education."

Faith giggled, and then tried to stop herself, muttering something that he couldn't quite catch. "Give him one for me, will you?"

"Of course, my girl. Of course I will." He nodded at the guard and started his way out of the prison.

It was time to start arranging a flight to England.

End MD5: My Daughter's Friends.


	6. My Daughter's Keeper

author: Lucinda

rating: pg13 for violence

sixth in the 'My Daughter' series

main characters: Tom Cassidy, Caine Marco, Quentin Travers

disclaimer: Travers and Faith are the creation of Joss Whedon for the series BtVS and/or Angel the Series. Tom and Caine are the creation of Marvel comics.

distribution: with the rest of the My Daughter series.

notes: AU after Faith turned herself in during S1 Angel/S4 BtVS.

The trip to London was actually a miserable series of flights. First, they went from Los Angeles to Chicago, then from Chicago to Boston, and finally from Boston to London. Tom felt positively queasy by that point, and exhausted from the nervous dread left by the turbulence over the ocean. His mind had been haunted by images of lightning killing the engines, causing them to plummet thousands of feet to the water below.

London called for a good deal more caution about his identity, considering that Scotland Yard was looking for him. A small matter of a few dozen criminal charges that he'd committed... He doubted that they'd care that he was trying to help out his daughter, and he wasn't certain that he wanted them to know about her. Some of them were decent enough if a bit stuffy, but others were miserable bastards with badges. They found somewhere quiet to sleep off the jet lag, and finalize a couple details of their plans.

A solid fourteen hours of sleep left Tom feeling much better. They pulled out a few maps, and some paper to scrawl a few notes on.

"Tom, can we just do this the quick way?" Caine grumbled. "Let me break down the wall, grab someone to tell us where to find Travers, and kick his head in?"

"We want to ask him questions first." Tom paused, considering things. "But the rest of it doesn't sound that bad."

"Good." Caine cracked his knuckles, with a gleeful expression on his face that had terrified an assortment of military leaders, heroes and mercenaries.

It wasn't that much more complicated than that. They found the building, three looming stories of dark brick, flanked by more looming dark buildings and a narrow, gloomy looking patch of half dead trees and thorny branches. Caine kicked the door down, and walked right inside, with Tom following after him. There was someone screaming, and a siren was going off somewhere deeper in the building.

A man with a coppery sword tried to attack, and Caine caught the sword, lifting the man to dangle in the air, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. "I'm not after you. Back off."

Tom looked around, and saw a young woman, silently watching everything from under a desk while another woman jus stared and shrieked. Beckoning towards the quiet one, he asked, "Could you be taking us to see Mr. Quentin Travers? I've got a few questions for him, and I couldn't find a number to call and make an appointment."

For a moment, she was still, and then her eyes flickered to the still screaming woman. Carefully, she ducked back out from under the desk, and brushed some dust off her skirt. "An appointment with Mr. Travers. Please follow me, I'll take you to see him now."

"Sarah!" The screaming woman gasped, the outrage almost stunning her into quiet.

They followed the trembling woman, with several more doors being knocked down, possibly just because Cain could do it. Finally, she stopped in front of an old, scuffed door that had an oddly worked pattern around its center panel. "This is Mr. Travers' office."

"Thank you, lass." Tom smiled, and tapped his shillelagh against the wooden door, which sent up a nearly invisible scattering of sparks. "Travers! Open th' door."

"Go away!" A man's voice replied, shaking slightly.

Scowling, Tom tried to open the door, discovering that it was locked. Glaring at it, he stepped back, gesturing towards it as he looked up at Caine. "It seems to be locked, my friend."

When Caine's fist struck the door, the sparks were quite visible, and looked like a shower of molten metal, flaring and falling to the floor as the door splintered and collapsed. It was quite spectacular, and a clear sign that there were – or rather, had been – some of those extra special protections on the door. It splintered further as Caine stepped into the office.

Tom almost wished that it would be possible to close a door behind him and make certain that Travers couldn't leave. "I've got a few questions for you, Travers. Most of them center on a lass named Faith."

The frightened man just blinked, blankly repeating the word as if the name meant nothing to him. "Faith?"

"A lass named Faith. Dark hair, dark eyes, grew up in Boston. She's something called a Slayer." His knuckles were white as he ground out the words. "Have I jogged your memories yet?"

"She's not going to be a problem anymore!" The words slipped out, and the man tried to push his chair back, tried to make himself feel less threatened. "I've made arrangements to take care of her."

The shillelagh narrowly missed Travers' fingers, leaving a dent in the surface of the desk. "Wrong answer."

"Who sent you?" The question held anger and fear both. "I've already sent my assurances…"

Caine smashed his fist through the wall, yanking at some wires. Lights flickered before blinking back on, and the annoying siren died. "Better."

"As for who sent me, you could say that it's a bit of a family matter." He paused, trying to puzzle out the partial label of a file that had fallen to the floor. '..th …kins' Hadn't Faith said that the Mayor of Sunnydale had been named Wilkins? He picked up the file, deciding to look at it later. "You've made things miserable for my daughter, and I'm here on her behalf."

"Your… your daughter?" Travers whispered, his eyes going wide and his face pale. Perhaps he could put a few things together correctly. "Who…"

"She's a pretty lass, about seventeen now. Her name's Faith." He pulled the shillelagh upwards, gathering the energy inside of it. "Her name is Faith Cassidy."

Travers' mouth opened as he prepared to say something, but the words were lost in the resounding noise of the desk exploding. Splinters flew backwards, several cutting into Travers. Wisps of paper glowed with flames before falling to ash, scattering the back of the room.

"You've sent people after my daughter. It stops now. If she has problems with so much as a mugger, a bit of hassle with transportation, I'll come back to take it out on you. If she gets hurt, you'll suffer three times as much. And if any of your people try to get rid of her on your behalf, we'll come back and make this seem like a friendly little chat."

Nobody stopped them on the way out.

Neither of them spoke until they were almost back at Heathrow airport. Caine broke the angry silence with a few quiet words. "You do know that we've made ourselves another enemy."

"He made himself an enemy the first time he did wrong by Faith." Tom muttered. It probably hadn't been the wisest thing that they'd ever done, but he wasn't about to just ignore that cowardly rat sending people to hurt Faith, using her as an expendable pawn and trying to have her killed just because things got out of hand.

The matter wasn't brought up again for the entirety of the trip back to Los Angeles.

They might have given things a bit more thought if they'd known that their 'chat' with Travers had registered on the sensitive equipment of Charles Xavier, the man behind the X-Men. That Tom's mutant signature had been matched and that even now, his possible actions an motivations were being discussed by a group of his enemies, among them his cousin, Sean. The X-men were known for many things, but standing idly by wasn't one of them.

End My Daughter's Keeper.


	7. My Cousin's Where?

author: Lucinda

rating: Y-14 for violence

seventh in the 'My Daughter' series

main characters: Charles Xavier, Sean Cassidy

disclaimer: Travers and Faith are the creation of Joss Whedon for the series BtVS and/or Angel the Series. Tom, Caine, Sean and Charles Xavier are the creations of Marvel comics.

distribution: with the rest of the My Daughter series.

notes: AU after Faith turned herself in during S1 Angel/S4 BtVS. :Words in colons: are telepathic communication.

Sean Cassidy walked into the Professor's office, still puzzling over the man's nervous call. Professor Charles Xavier hadn't given any explanation for his unease, simply asking that Sean come to his office to help discuss a situation. "So, you'll be telling me what's going on now?"

"Sean, please, have a seat." Charles shuffled a few pages, and picked up his cup of tea. "I received a call from a few of my colleagues in England. Apparently, Tom and Caine caused quite a disturbance at a small historical society. There were frightened people, property damage, and apparently a death threat to the administrator, a Mr. Quentin Travers."

"Then they aren't telling you everything." Sean settled into a chair, holding out one hand for the pages.

"What do you mean?" Charles frowned, and handed over the papers. "I have copies of the reports right here."

Sean accepted the pages, scanning over the police report of frightened people, shattered doors, and a broken bronze sword, described as a priceless historical artifact. It hadn't been so priceless that they hadn't been able to give it an insurance figure. Nothing was reported as stolen. Nobody had been killed. None of the names from this historical society were at all familiar.

"Tom and Caine have done a great many things that aren't so law abiding, but this..." Sean pointed at the pages. "There's no reason for it. They've done many things against the laws, but never without a purpose. Nobody was killed, and from the looks of it, if he'd wanted a man dead, there would be bodies. Nothing stolen. I don't even see a reason why they would be there."

For a moment, it looked as if Charles wanted to protest. "I suppose you're right. He's always had some sort of motivation for his actions in the past. But why would he go terrorize a small historical society?"

Looking back at the reports, Sean frowned. "Not quite so small. With this location and that much space for their buildings in the heart of London, they've got themselves quite a bit of pull. Possibly titled backers, and they've either got a lot of pull recently, or a lot of history."

"Their grounds are smaller than my school." Charles paused, and thought about that. "In the heart of London? That would be more like the center of New York, wouldn't it?"

"The area where a person can pay a thousand dollars a month to lay claim to an apartment the size of this office." Sean nodded. "London's had a great deal more time to grow than New York, and a place that size... It takes a good deal to keep it."

"Someone needs to go look into this historical society then." Charles held out a hand for the papers. "We also need to find..."

"Send Jean and Betsy to look in London. They might be able to find some clue about why he went there. But if that's all he did, Tom's not going to be there anymore." Sean interrupted, not handing over the papers. "If you could use that tracker of yours to figure out where he is, someone should go try to figure out what he's up to. He's already taken care of whatever he was planning to do in London, and is continuing with his plan."

"We need to figure out his plan quickly. He and Caine can be quite destructive." Charles moved out from behind his desk, and shook his head. "Can you explain to Jean and Betsy what to look for while I try to locate your cousin?"

"Of course. When you do figure out where he is, I want to go. You don't have anyone else that understands the way he thinks as much as I do."

Charles nodded, and made his way out the door, the floating chair moving through the doorway. "Of course. But not alone, you might be able to handle Tom, but not Caine."

"There are very few individuals who can handle the Juggernaut." Sean agreed, and started towards the lower levels. "Where are they, Professor?"

"I asked them to meet you in the library." With that parting comment, Charles Xavier left to go track down the current location of Tom Cassidy.

Sean just shook his head, making his way towards the library. It wouldn't be that hard to find, as many times as the place had needed repairs, even rebuilding a few times, Charles had kept the floor plan fairly consistent. It would be upstairs, overlooking the back yard, with the edge of the lake visible. Shelves would line the walls, and there would be a few solid tables near the windows.

"The Professor didn't tell us very much, just that we're going to London to investigate something." Jean's words were a subtle request for more information.

Nodding, Sean moved towards the tables, leaning against one. "Tom Cassidy and Caine Marko. For reasons that are a bit unclear, the two of them caused a bit of unwelcome attention at what's supposed to be a historical society in London."

"I didn't think either of them were historians," Jean muttered. "Or were they looking for someone? What did they take?"

"Nothing was reported stolen, and there were no fatalities." Sean spoke, placing the pages on the table. "I've got the address here, and the current administrator is someone called Quentin Travers."

"Travers..." Betsy was frowning. "That name sounds familiar. What would either of them be searching for in a historical society?"

"That would be the questions we'd like to know." Sean smiled mirthlessly. "We'd like the pair of you to go to London and try to get a bit more information. Tom might be a criminal, but he's not crazy. He must have had a reason for this, and if we can figure out what it it, we're closer to knowing what to do about it. I have a few suspicions about this historical society."

"In that neighborhood?" Betsy arched an eyebrow, lifting the address from his mind. "You're right, that does seem rather odd. I still have a few useful contacts in S.T.R.I.K.E. and I'm sure that you'll be making a few calls to someone still working for Interpol."

"You think Travers is hiding something." Jean added, looking at the two of them. "Is he a mutant?"

"All I can be sure of right now is that the name isn't familiar from my days at Interpol, the neighborhood's a bit much for a simple historical society, and that Tom always has a reason for what he does." Sean held out his hands, emphasizing his lack of information. "Things aren't adding up right. We need to know more about what happened, about this Travers, and just what sort of historical things they do."

"Smuggling? Or possibly some sort of intelligence operation..." Betsy commented, considering the papers. "I know that several of the spies I used to work with had training in matters of history, it helps sort out the motivations of governments and gives a wonderful cover."

"Historian spies?" Jean looked at Betsy as if the words had been some incomprehensible foreign language.

"Historians have a better cover than models. Nobody expects them to worry about anything recent, and most people don't pay attention to them." A hand gesture dismissed the topic. "Sean is right, this historical society is obviously hiding something. We'll just have to go and very carefully find out what that something is and if it's a threat to us."

"While you ladies are doing that, I'll be going to wherever it is that Tom has gone off to, in hopes of finding out what he's doing now." Sean added. "The Professor's supposed to be locating him now."

:Sean? Can you think of any reason why Tom would go to Los Angeles: The thoughts of Charles Xavier reached out, echoing slightly inside Sean's skull.

"Known the man for years and I'm still not used to hearing him without my ears." Sean rubbed at one ear, despite knowing that it would do nothing for the echo. He spoke out loud, both because it was easier for him and in case there might be something useful to the ladies. "I've got no idea why he'd be there. With the timing, they must have left right after their visit to Travers, unless Caine isn't with him. No telling how long he'll be there, we should leave soon."

:You should know by now that Caine is very difficult to read. However, I am almost certain that he is in the area as well, so those of you who are going should proceed with caution. Be at the Blackbird in an hour.:

"Well, ladies, you can go off and pry into secret societies, I'll go play hide and seek with my cousin and the Juggernaut." Sean started to leave the library, and then called out, "Good luck to you, and I wouldn't mind a little for me. We'll probably need it."

As Sean tried to prepare himself for whatever situation he would discover in LA, he hoped that someone would send a little good luck his way. The way things went with the X-Men, he'd be sure to need it. He just hoped he'd be able to deal with whatever it was that they'd find. A paramilitary groups? Terrorists? Mutant extremists? Religious protests? He just didn't know how any of those scenarios would involve a British organization that claimed to be nothing more than a historical society.

end MD7: My Cousin's Where?


	8. My Daughter's Innocence

author: Lucinda

rating: Y-14 for violence

eighth in the 'My Daughter' series

main characters: Faith, Angel, representatives of the Watcher's Council.

disclaimer: Angel and Faith are the creation of Joss Whedon for the series BtVS and/or Angel the Series. Tom and Caine are the creations of Marvel comics.

distribution: with the rest of the My Daughter series.

notes: AU after Faith turned herself in during S1 Angel/S4 BtVS.

Faith thought about the recent twist in her life as she stared at a small crack in one of the blocks of the wall. There weren't too many choices of what to stare at while in a prison cell, it was either a concrete block, the concrete floor, the plate of polished steel that served as a mirror, or the off-white ceiling tiles. She wasn't paying attention to the wall anyhow, she was thinking about her father.

Tom Cassidy. He was many things; a wanted criminal, Irish, and a mutant. She hadn't really expected her father to be anyone like him. She'd always known in a vague sort of way that her dad was Irish, that her mom had split from him because of some differences. To be honest, her mom had sworn that he was a criminal, a hard-drinking, lying thug who always took the path of least resistance. Of course, she'd assumed that her mom might have been a bit bitter, or biased.

Not that she'd turned out much better. Faith didn't really drink, but she'd killed. Stolen. Tortured for information. Hardly an exemplary life. Her mom had split to 'spare her her father's criminal ways', but she really doubted that this was what her mom would have wanted.

"Faith, you've got a visitor." The guard looked bored, swinging the metal bar absently. "You might want to check your hair, it's a suit."

"A suit?" Faith pushed herself of the bunk, and glanced in the mirror, smoothing her hair. "I don't know any suits, who could it be?"

"I wasn't told who or why," the guard commented. "I'm just glad that you're not one of the trouble-makers."

"Fine, I guess I'm ready to see the suit," Faith muttered, frowning at her set of prison clothing. She really didn't think that she'd make a good impression dressed like a felon, even if that's what she was.

She followed the guard down the blandly gray hall, into an elevator that went down to the ground floor, and down another hall before they entered the small area for supervised visitation. Faith sighed as she moved towards the chair by the specially treated glass. She didn't know what they did to it, but it was nearly unbreakable, certainly bullet-proof. On the other side was a middle-aged man in a bland brown suit, with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and a brown leather briefcase. He was nobody that she recognized. She sighed, knowing now that either he was a middling lawyer hoping to use her for a point, a reporter looking for a juicy story, or a Watcher.

"Faith Wilkins? I'd like to ask you a few questions." The man's voice held a faint accent, and his eyes were full of disapproval.

She dropped into the chair, and gave him a predator's baring of teeth. "I'm Faith, who are you?"

"My name is Samuel Dobson, I represent the Council." He paused, glancing at the guards and pointedly not saying what Council he meant. In his mind, there was probably only one that really mattered anyhow. "I have been sent to ask you a few questions about your assault on the Headquarters."

"Excuse me?" Faith blinked, glaring at the man in confused anger. "My what? I've been right here in the nice concrete cell, and I haven't assaulted anything worse than a cockroach ever since I got here. Start with explaining what this assault is, and move to why you're talking to me about it."

"Your assault on the Headquarters in London. Last week? Does this sound familiar yet?" The man's sarcasm was thick, and he was giving her the look that said he viewed her only as a flawed weapon.

Faith leaned back in her chair, and shook her head. "I've been here for months now. They haven't even let me out to visit a doctor, let alone leave the country. I guess you'd best look elsewhere for the responsible party, because it's not me."

"But Mr. Travers was attacked in his own office!" Dobsen looked affronted.

"Look, while I know that my record's not squeaky clean and shiny, that's something I didn't do. I would have taken great pleasure in paying him a visit, and there would have been a few words, but I haven't left the prison." Faith glared at him, and then smiled before adding, "I didn't do it. Go away."

"But... but..." Dobsen sputtered, glaring at Faith and then turning to glare at the guard. "She must have done it! Or called someone. Who else would have bothered?"

"Have you met Travers?" Faith asked, trying to look innocent. "I can't be the only person he's annoyed. Unless something's happened to B, she was even less happy with him than me."

"Miss Wilkins has been here for six months. She has not been permitted to make any unsupervised phone calls, and has made no calls. Her visits have all been supervised, and have not included any planning of assaults." The guard was frowning now as well, and glaring at Mr. Dobsen.

Dobsen stood up, and grabbed his briefcase with a weak scowl. He turned and stomped away, his shoes squeaking slightly on the floor.

"He was a representative of the Council?" Her guard asked, still frowning. "The same Council who produced most of the evidence against you?"

"Uh-huh." Faith replied, not bothering to admit that she had actually killed those people. "They don't like me very much."

"Hmmm..." Shaking her head, the guard sighed. "I suppose now that that's done with, we might as well take you back to your cell."

Faith nodded, and decided not to ask any of the questions that she now had bubbling in her mind. She was really curious about this assault on Travers, though she suspected that her dad might have had something to do with it. She also had the feeling that the guard might be planning something.

That evening, a few phone calls were made to lawyers. Requests were made to carefully review all the evidence that had been gathered against Faith. A few murmured comments about that day's visitor elicited a promise that every piece of evidence would be inspected to ensure that it hadn't been planted by a group of outsiders.

None of the people talking about Faith's legal situation could figure out why a British historical society would be so concerned with the fate of one American girl, especially one who wasn't known for being anywhere near museums. They did agree that it seemed a bit unusual, possibly even suspicious.

One lawyer, a Ms. Lilah Morgan, even mentioned that if there wasn't sufficient untainted evidence, Faith Wilkins might even be granted a release, possibly even a delayed judgment of 'not guilty due to insufficient evidence.'

The wheels were turning. Nobody asked what had greased them.

End My Daughter's Innocence.


	9. Digging for Answers

Author: Lucinda

Rating: Y-14 for violence

Ninth in the 'My Daughter' series

Main characters: Betsy Braddock, Jean Grey, mentions of other X-Men, strong presence of the Watchers Council

Disclaimer: Travers and Faith are the creation of Joss Whedon for the series BtVS and/or Angel the Series. Caine Marko, Tom and Sean Cassidy, Jean Grey, Betsy Braddock and Charles Xavier are the creations of Marvel comics.

Distribution: with the rest of the My Daughter series.

Notes: AU after Faith turned herself in during S1 Angel/S4 BtVS. :Words in colons: are telepathic communication.

"How are we going to handle this, Betsy?" Jean's question was reasonable. While the redhead had several more years experience as an X-Man, she'd never dealt with the sort of political maneuverings of the aristocracy, or the deception and searching of intelligence operations.

For a few moments, Betsy was quiet. "Do you think you can bear to play the part of a secretary? The term would be a personal assistant, actually. If I go as a wealthy, moderately influential woman with an interest in history and secrets, with an assistant, they'll focus on me. That will give you the option of acting under less observation."

"What about your reasoning?" Jean's tone made it clear that she was considering more than just Betsy's past and upbringing. "And this assistant idea had better have more of a reason than your opinions about my clothing, again."

One hand waved, dismissing the old complaint. "When I was younger, about ten, someone from this Council came to my father's house. We weren't the only family to have such visitors. If I mention such things, act curious, slightly awed, and desperate for something to strengthen a politically weak but wealthy family..."

"How much detail will you need?" Jean's concern tinged the question, along with images of suspicious people dressed like a bad television program. "Is this going to be dangerous, or merely touchy?"

"Unfortunately, I can't answer that," Betsy sighed. "If they somehow attracted the attentions of Black Tom and the Juggernaut, we must assume that there will be an element of danger, though we can't be certain how much. We are going to be seeking information most of all, not to stop some terrible device or to fight an enemy."

"You and Sean both seemed to think that they have a lot more influence than they're admitting to," Jean mused. "How useful are they likely to view your persona? And will you be Betsy Braddock?"

"To be blunt, it would be simply impossible for them to ever get their hands on a location like that without as much or more clout than many nobles. To keep it for so long... No. Somehow, they have the power," Betsy's statement was firm, free from any doubt. With a small smile, she continued, "They aren't likely to assume that Victoria Kenmore is terribly useful, just a small fish with hopes and delusions of becoming a bigger fish. But I shall be a small fish with money, and I have yet to encounter any sort of organization that has no interest in that. Most likely, they'll try to smile nicely, and give the equivalent of a few pats on the head, right before trying to separate me from some of my presumed money and send me on my way."

"I hate playing the part of a little fish," Jean grumbled. "So, you'll portray yourself as a woman with more money and ambition than sense?"

"Go ahead and laugh. You'll be portraying the long-suffering, plainly dressed assistant." Betsy sighed, before adding, "At least we have somewhere to stay. Braddock Manor will have more than enough room. If they notice, why, I was privileged enough to attend school at the same time as their daughter, practically family back then, of course."

Jean giggled. "And probably related somehow, with that nest of intermarriages and related nobles?"

"Yes, but its considered poor taste to start out by boasting of distant connections. Vicky's going to be ambitious, not tactless."

They spent the entire flight telepathically discussing details of wardrobe, protocol, and location. Jean would need to be able to present herself as familiar with London and society, as if Victoria Kenmore had been living on the edges of society for quite some time.

End part 1.

Jean sighed, trying not to frown at her current clothing. The outfit, while looking suitably formal, did absolutely nothing for her in terms of color or cut. In fact, it might have been the singularly least flattering article of clothing... "Betsy, you didn't mention that your persona would have a pettily spiteful streak."

"Of course. What else happens to people of thwarted ambition?" Betsy's amusement was clear.

Jean turned around, and found herself blinking at the changes in her teammate. Betsy's outfit looked expensive, a frilly, overdone gown in plum with gold accenting, too much jewelry, a rose scented perfume, her hair dyed black, and a rather haughty expression. Somehow, she managed to look a good twenty pounds heavier, and her complexion was somehow... less clear. Betsy had managed to look almost plain.

With a half smirk, Betsy commented, "I'm afraid that Vicky hasn't quite got what she wanted out of life."

"You caught that, I assume," Jean retorted.

Betsy nodded. "Of course. The whole point is that she's not quite as impressive as she wants to be perceived. You don't spend as much time involved in fashion as I did without learning a few tricks, and who would ever think that this is me?"

"Good points, all of them," Jean agreed. "Do we have an appointment?"

"We do, and we don't want to be late. Vicky and her assistant are expected at two," Betsy murmured, her tones and accent more British than normal. "There's no reason to suspect that Mr. Travers is a mutant, so we should be able to listen freely, but it would be over-confident for us to try to look deeper than surface thoughts, or to assume that there are no mutants or otherwise gifted individuals at the offices."

"I hadn't even thought about non-mutants being able to detect a telepathic probe," Jean murmured. "How common is that?"

Betsy shrugged, "Common is relative. Certain magical traditions use mental discipline and abilities, they'd almost certainly know. I used to work with a woman who claimed that she was a direct descendent of Nimue, from the Arthurian legends. Some spies pick up the ability, either from years of practice or that much mental focus. If they're really just a historical society, they probably wouldn't notice a thing, but... We don't really think they're just a historical society."

"The more I hear, the more I have to agree with you and Sean - there's something else going on," Jean murmured, picking up a slim briefcase. "So, away with us to our meeting?"

"Off to our meeting," Betsy agreed. "Fortunately, I have a driver ready, and he'll take us in one of the blander cars."

End part 2.

Jean looked at the headquarters and gave a small sniff. There was a new door, the wood still looking sharply distinct from its frame, and a sign proclaiming 'London Society for Historical Research', with the iron bar bent at an upwards angle. "It shows that Caine was here."

:Remember, we aren't supposed to know any of that, my supposed secretary: Betsy's mental voice was amused. :And as my personal assistant, you get to open the door and look studious while Vicky tries to look important.:

:Don't enjoy this too much, Betsy: Jean cautioned. :We're here for a mission, not for you to take a trip down memory lane.:

:Of course: Betsy's mental voice held a trace of arrogance. :if I were being myself, not only would both of us be much better dressed, they would be coming to us. Of course, that would limit what we would see of them…:

Jean opened the door, and the women stepped inside. There was a receptionist, glancing at them over a desk with several stacks of papers. With a pained smile, Jean approached the woman, murmuring, "Miss Kenmore has an appointment with Mr. Travers at two."

"Of course, please follow me." The woman stood up, stepping around from the desk. Her outfit was just as bland and unflattering as Jean's, though she did seem quite content that way. Her thoughts were a bit more interesting though… The redhead must be Kenmore's personal assistant. Price'll be falling over himself to flirt with her, and Travers will probably be trying to charm Kenmore – as if that man could charm anyone. He'll probably think a few fake smiles and some empty words will have the woman cheerfully handing over her inheritance in exchange for a couple empty promises to make good connections… Or maybe she wants someone to find something impressive in the family tree, God knows Travers has sold that sort of thing before…

"Where did the new door come from? I would have thought that such a prestigious organization would have made certain that the door and the frame matched…" Jean let her words trail away, hoping not to raise any questions in the receptionist. A few helpful images about what had happened would be nice, but questions might be dangerous.

An image flickered in the receptionist's mind, the door falling inwards, knocked out of the frame by a massive fist, the Juggernaut standing there with the much smaller Tom Cassidy beside him. People had started to scream, alarms wailing, and the two men had stalked closer, anger radiating from the smaller man. In a cold voice, Tom had demanded, "Could you be taking us to see Mr. Quentin Travers? I've got a few questions for him, and I couldn't find a number to call and make an appointment."

With a small shake of her head, the woman commented, "There was a slight problem with the preferred repairmen. Several repairs were needed after a pair of disgruntled visitors last week… There's no need for either of you to worry." Running underneath the spoken words, there was a more troubling thought - those angry men were much better behaved than some of the visitors that Mr. Travers had entertained.

Listening to the floating thoughts, the telepaths followed the woman down a hallway. Many thoughts were easily dismissed, observations of their co-workers annoying habits, frustration at small apartments, the pinching of a new pair of shoes…

But there were a great many people making files on people. People that were alive now, not deceased people of historical position and status. As Sarah the receptionist turned them around a corner and started up a staircase, reflecting that Mr. Travers had changed the location of his office after his visit from the men who'd knocked down the door, Jean and Betsy realized something else about the subjects of the files – they were all young women and girls. Some were in their early twenties, others were still in school, there were even some who were still too young to start their formal education.

:Betsy, why are they making so many files on girls? This can't be normal, and I'm not seeing a historical connection there at all.: Jean's worried thought didn't quite mask her concerns. Were these girls mutants? Why were none of the files on boys? Why were they keeping track of so many girls?

:Some of them are from particular families, very few of which are aristocracy. Some have relatives that work in this group, or were adopted by someone here.: Betsy paused, and turned over some of the fragments that they were hearing. :I'm more worried about why so many of them are being given fighting lessons. Oh, they're listing them as self defense, or karate, or archery… but why is it so important that all of these girls of varying backgrounds and social classes learn these things:

:We learned some of them…: Jean thought back, feeling a knot of suspicion growing in her stomach. :But we're… Well, I was always intended to be an X-Man, and you were a spy.:

:I want to know why they seem to be training a private, all-female army, and what their goal is.: Betsy's thoughts were hard, laced with whispered suspicions.

:An army? Do you think…: Jean paused, considering the sheer volume of files, and how many girls were being tracked. :But wouldn't an army be more effective if they were adults, and not school-children:

:How old were you when you first helped Xavier? How old was Kitty: Betsy's thoughts were soft, tinged with sorrow. :How many wars in the past had soldiers who were scarcely more than children, and how many invaded peoples used their children to smuggle things in and out, to set traps? Young and dangerous are not mutually exclusive.:

:I don't even know what's going on yet, but I don't like it.: Jean decided.

:Neither do I: Betsy agreed.

They could feel Travers even through the solid oak door, eagerly considering the financial assets of Victoria Kenmore, and pondering the best way to flatter them out of her hands, and into the coffers of the Council. He was certain that she was some aspiring socialite, her thoughts on nothing more complex or far reaching than attracting a powerful husband and gaining entrance to the higher levels of society. He thought her a fool, though a fool with money. Otherwise, he would never consent to wasting his time with her, he'd simply delegate an underling.

:Charming: Jean thought. :And we have to smile and pretend to fall for this guy:

:Be glad we don't have to flirt with him: Betsy retorted.

"Mr. Travers, Miss Kenmore and her assistant are here for their appointment," Sarah murmured.

"Of course, show them in, Sarah," a man's voice, a deceptively mild baritone.

Jean felt surprised that he seemed so ordinary. Quentin Travers looked like any other middle-aged man of reasonable prosperity. He was not fat or particularly lean, his hair was barely starting to gray, and there was a faint bump in his nose. He looked like a historian, or an accountant, and his face didn't really match the manipulatively cold thoughts… until she looked at his eyes. They were cold and hard, like pebbles, calculating and ruthless eyes. Dead eyes.

"So glad that you could make time for me, Mr. Travers," Betsy cooed, clearly throwing herself into the role of an empty headed socialite.

"Of course, Ms. Kenmore. It's always a delight to entertain such a lovely lady as yourself," He smiled, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. :Your sort are so simple to deal with, a bit of flattery, some historical accomplishments that can be tied t a safely dead relative… She should be good for a few thousand pounds before it takes any real work.: He kissed her hand, and murmured, "What brings you here on this lovely afternoon?

"Actually, I remembered something that a dear friend of mine mentioned once. She mentioned that someone from this historical society found an ancestor who had been knighted with the particularly memorable title of 'Champion of the Realm, Slayer of Dragons', though I can't quite recall everything that she said about the ancestor… I presume a noble knight." Betsy managed to smile and look as if she was trying to conjure up an old memory.

"Yes, there were some fascinating titles given in the early fifteenth century," Travers remarked blandly. "Some of the most astonishing justifications were used."

"I was wondering, Mr. Travers, if something similarly impressive might be found in my family. I've seen the way that Therese flaunts her ancestor who received his knighting from the king as well as a crown grant of land, and… well, she couldn't be the only person with such a noble, valiant ancestor." There was a firm nod, with a small, hopeful smile.

"Of course, though it can sometimes be a tedious thing to search through so many years of records." Mr. Travers paused, and pulled out something from one of the drawers of his desk.

Jean shifted her position, looking as if she was simply removing a paper from her briefcase, and caught a glimpse of his hand. For reasons unknown, he was holding what looked like a golden cage of wires, twisted with tiny purple beads and pearls, surrounding a walnut sized crystal that seemed blood red at the center, fading quickly so that the outside was almost clear. He was frowning at it, pointing the strange object at Betsy. He then moved it, so that the end was aimed at her, and the gem changed color, deepening until it was almost all red.

:Damn, the assistant's bloodline carries the potential. She's too old to be of use, and certainly untrained and useless, but if she has daughters… Yes, I'll need to have someone find out more about Kenmore's assistant.: Travers put the strange device back into a drawer. :I wonder if she has any prospects of children, or if we should arrange a conveniently charming suitor to enter her life. Someone to marry her, make sure she has a handful of children… She's pretty enough that it wouldn't be a hardship.:

:Jean, lock your emotions down. If he sees you with that expression…: Betsy's voice was in her mind, insistent. :You look about ready to rip him apart. Not that I blame you, considering that I caught that as well, but we're supposed to be harmless people, remember? Not mind-reading mutants.:

"Do you have that family tree ready, Celia?" Betsy's voice was soft, and she motioned to Mr. Travers. "I thought that it might be a bit easier if you had a copy of my family tree to start with. A guide for where to look for illustrious ancestors."

"Of course, Miss Kenmore," Jean replied, her eyes downcast as she handed the paper to Travers. Idly, Jean wondered if there really was a Victoria Kenmore, and what a search on the woman would find.

"Thank you, ladies. I assure you that some of my people will begin searching immediately. Do you need me to show you the way out?" Travers smiled, folding the page and placing it on his desk.

"If you would be so kind," Betsy fluttered her eyelashes in polite helplessness.

:I can flatter as many empty headed society women as I need if it will help fund my purposes: Travers reminded himself. :Having a malleable Slayer again will make it all worth it.:

:Betsy, what's a Slayer: Jean thought, wondering why Travers' mind gave the term a special significance.

:I don't know, but I think we'll need to find out.: Betsy nodded at some meaningless courtesy that Travers had offered. :Let's go, this place is making my skin crawl, and I want to get rid of this bad make-up.:

As they left the office, they concluded that they had only caught the edge of the tail. Whatever this group was up to, whatever a 'Slayer' was, it was much bigger than a single office in London, and much darker than swindling the peerage out of money to 'find' illustrious ancestors. They could only hope that it wasn't going to become the next big crisis that the X-Men would have to fight.

"I hope that these 'Slayers' aren't anything like Sentinals," Jean murmured.

"I don't think they're any sort of robot," Betsy mused. "What I don't know is why they're only following women and girls, or what your age has to do with whatever they think those girls might be useful for."

"My age… He made it sound like I was some ancient hag," Jean snorted. "Honestly, I'm only twenty six."

"Normally, that's too old for a truly effective indoctrination process: Betsy pointed out. "Children can be easily convinced to do things, especially if they're told by people in trusted positions, their parents, their favorite teachers… Even if those things are risky."

"We may have gotten some information, but it feels like we have more questions than ever," Jean sighed.

End part 3.

End MD9: Digging for Answers.


	10. You Have a Daughter?

author: Lucinda

rating: Y-14 for violence

tenth in the 'My Daughter' series

main characters:

disclaimer: Quentin Travers, Lilah Morgan, Wesley Wyndham-Price and Faith are the creation of Joss Whedon for the series BtVS and/or Angel the Series. Caine Marko, Tom and Sean Cassidy, and Charles Xavier are the creations of Marvel comics.

distribution: with the rest of the My Daughter series.

notes: AU after Faith turned herself in during S1 Angel/S4 BtVS. :Words in colons: are telepathic communication.

Faith breathed out, mentally keeping count as she did sit-ups in her cell. They were tedious, but it was a slight improvement to just sitting or laying on the cot and staring at the ceiling. At least she'd had plenty of time to sort out her thoughts. Time to figure out what she'd done wrong and how she could have done better at the time and if it came up again.

Now she just wanted out. The walls loomed at her, and she kept having half-dreams where they moved inwards, shrinking around her. The clothing was ugly. The food was bad. The boredom would drive her out of her mind.

"Company, Faith. You have a visitor out front. She said she's your lawyer," the guard smirked. "What's a nice girl like you doing with a lawyer anyhow? They're all sharks."

"When did I get a lawyer?" Faith mused.

"I didn't ask. Time to go talk to her, maybe she can tell you when you got a lawyer."

Faith rolled up to her feet, shaking her head. She might as well go talk to this lawyer, it would probably be the only way to figure out what was going on.

Of course, she hadn't expected her lawyer to be someone she recognized. Lilah Morgan, sitting there in an expensive gray suit with her leather briefcase. That only raised more questions for Faith, even as others were answered.

"Lilah Morgan," Faith nodded in recognition. "Should I ask what a high level player like yourself is doing with my case?"

"Merely seeing that justice is…" Lilah paused smirking. "It seems that there have been a few unusual things uncovered in your original trial. Particularly questionable things. Some of those things led to your conviction, and some of the more annoying ones have been traced to a particularly meddling organization. You may consider yourself and your situation to be insignificant, but this is a serious matter to myself and to my company."

Looking at Lilah's smile, Faith could see why lawyers had a reputation for being sharks. There was no warmth, nothing friendly in that expression.

Another few moments and Faith realized why. The 'meddling organization' could only be the Watcher's Council. Lilah and her company had identified them, and they knew that the Council wasn't whatever the hell they'd claimed they were when they gave evidence against Faith. Not only had they identified, but they wanted to either taunt or hurt them by getting Faith out. They might even think that this would leave Faith thinking that she owed them something.

Remembering Quentin Travers, and Dobson and his accusations, and the assassination teams, and the Council's idea of dealing with her first Watcher's death, Faith returned her own predatory smile. "So, what sort of unusual things did you find?"

Sean glared at the luggage collection area and the seething horde of people that filled it. He didn't have a great deal that he'd brought, and this was part of the reason why. Well, that and the fact that he wasn't expecting to be in the area for terribly long.

Just long enough to find Tom and figure out what they were doing. To get a few answers.

Finally, the crowd thinned enough that he could lift up his battered duffel. After that, it was a simple matter to walk out of the airport and take a bus shuttle into the right area to wander in search of his hotel. It wasn't a wonderful hotel, but it would do for a brief stay. After all, his needs were simple, and this time, they didn't include keeping anyone else safe and comfortable enough to plot with him. Of course, if he miscalculated, there'd be nobody to keep him from being crushed if this was finally the time that Tom had lost control.

Grinning, he contemplated that possibility. He was treading the edge of danger, dancing a jig along the line of his cousin's temper and the whim of fortune. It made his heart hammer and his blood sing. "Ahh, it's good to be alive, and I'm probably a risk-taking fool."

Sean stepped off the bus shuttle, waiting for it to rumble away before he took his deep breathe of air. Not exactly sweet smelling, but this was the closest that he'd had to a vacation in a long time. After all, going to beautiful, exotic locations to stop a crisis and having the other side trying to blast you into a scattering of scorched cells was hardly his idea of a relaxing vacation. He started walking down the street, going right from the bus stop. In theory, he was looking for a hotel, but part of it was the desire to stretch after the plane trip and bus ride.

He certainly hadn't expected to see the Juggernaut waking down the street ahead of him.

Granted, the man wasn't in his armor, and certainly not that horrible, bucket-like helmet, but he was rather unmistakable. He towered head and very broad shoulders over the rest of the crowd. As if the size wasn't enough, Sean had seen pictures of the man, back in the day when some idiot had thought ordinary law enforcement could stop him. That was definitely Caine Marko.

And joy of joys, he was supposed to be figuring out why the Juggernaut was here.

Sometimes, efficiency was a terrible thing. When he truly needed to find someone fast, it usually took some time. When he was in no hurry at all, he no sooner gets off the bus then there the man is… "Fortune's got a plan for me. Hopefully, it's not a spectacular ending."

Trying not to hang his head like a man off to his execution, Sean followed the Juggernaut. Down the street, turning left at a small grocery store, down two blocks, and then the Juggernaut sauntered into a hotel. Not a very impressive one, and some of the other people there made Marko look positively normal, but it was a hotel.

"Now I've gone and found both of the things I was supposed to be looking for," Sean chuckled. "I might as well see if there's a room open."

The clerk had green hair and a strange pattern of green swirls that patterned over her face and arms, as well as slightly pointed teeth. Granted, it could have been the result of a rebellious fashion statement, but Sean had the suspicion that the green was natural. He didn't want to ask about the teeth. Of course there was a single occupancy room available for an unspecified number of days, though the cleaning staff weren't quite done with it yet, and he'd need to wait a little while before he could go inside. She – though Sean wasn't absolutely certain that the clerk was in fact female – also recommended a few places that might interest him and hoped that he enjoyed his stay.

Settling himself into one of the worn chairs in the lobby, Sean picked up a phone book to figure out what he'd do for dinner.

"Isn't this a bit out of your normal range, cousin?" Tom's voice was very calm.

Sean put the phonebook down, resisting the urge to swear. Tom always caused the most problems after he used that particular tone. Trying to stay calm, Sean looked over, replying, "No more than yours, Tom. How have you been lately?"

"Busy. But you're probably well aware of that, aren't you?" Tom's voice was smooth and menacing.

"Mmmm. Trips here, a trip to London… I'd say that's busy," Sean agreed.

"I suppose that fool Xavier sent you out here to stop me from whatever evil plot he thinks I'm up to now?" Tom's hand was clenched around his shillelagh, and while the energy couldn't hurt Sean, the stick itself was quite capable of causing injuries on it's own.

"He's not here, is he? I'd rather start with asking what you're up to than jumping right into a big fight that will result in me needing to find another hotel room," Sean countered.

"Sensible of you," Tom murmured, settling himself in one of the chairs.

For a few moments, they watched each other. Somewhere, a fan was making a 'woop-woop' noise, and something else was humming. Then, Tom spoke, "What I'm doing here has nothing to do with Xavier, or his plans. It's personal."

Sean nodded, commenting, "I told him that you must have had some particular reason for your visit to the irritating Mr. Travers."

"Do you remember Eileen?" Tom asked.

"Your wife," Sean nodded. "Dark hair, a dimple when she smiled, a quick temper and the most bizarre collection of music… Did she move out here then?"

"My daughter's out here."

Sean had a sudden fit of coughing and for a moment wondered if he'd manage to keep breathing. That changed everything. "Daughter? You have a daughter…"

Tom nodded, looking rather smug. "A fine, lovely daughter. I'm looking forward to seeing a bit more of her while I'm out this way, just as soon as a few minor matters have been taken care of."

Sean decided that he didn't want to know what those 'few, minor matters' were. Tom's daughter was family, and family was important. He just hoped that none of them would be things that he'd have to object to as a law abiding person. "Can you tell me a bit about her?"

Tom smiled, resting the shillelagh over his knees. "Her name's Faith…"

End MD10: You Have a Daughter?


	11. His Daughter's Chance

Author: Lucinda

Rating: Y-14 for violence

Eleventh in the 'My Daughter' series

Main characters: Sean and Tom Cassidy

Disclaimer: Quentin Travers, Lilah Morgan, and Faith are the creation of Joss Whedon for the series BtVS and/or Angel the Series. Caine Marko, Tom and Sean Cassidy, and Charles Xavier are the creations of Marvel comics.

Distribution: with the rest of the My Daughter series.

Notes: AU after Faith turned herself in during S1 Angel/S4 BtVS.

Sean nodded, thinking about what his cousin had said. He'd already known that Eileen had some objections to part of Tom's past. The idea that she hadn't wanted a child to grow up with 'that sort of bad influence' wasn't a surprise. Less surprising was that Tom was concerned for his daughter, Faith.

"Of course, she has managed to get into a spot of trouble lately," Tom admitted. "Avoiding my influence doesn't seem to have entirely helped."

"What sort of trouble?" Sean wasn't certain that he'd like the answer, but it had to be asked.

"I'm sure that things got exaggerated. It was probably all a muddle from the fact that she's..." Tom shook his head.

"Pick a thought and finish it, please," Sean begged, rubbing at his temple. "She'd only be what, fifteen? Sixteen? Is she a mutant then?"

"She's sixteen. As far as I know she's not a mutant. She's something called a Slayer," Tom smiled just a little, though his eyes were worried. "A gods-chosen warrior woman, out fighting all the nasties that lurk in the dark corners. The sort of things that Gran used to tell tales about."

"The tales that gave us nightmares?" Sean asked, remembering some of those stories.

"Those would be the ones," Tom agreed with a bitter sigh. "That miserable worm Travers is in charge of a group of people that look for girls who might become those warriors, and then they try to control their lives."

"Ahhh," Sean leaned back, relieved to finally know why his cousin had gone to London. "What sort of training does this group give these girls? The ones they think might become warriors? Or what did you call her, a Slayer?"

"I'm not to certain, but I didn't like the way they view her. Any of them, all of them. To him, they're all interchangeable. If the Slayer dies, there will be another one, so it doesn't matter if she dies." Tom's shillelagh was glowing again, this time a bright yellow and orange.

Sean winced. "You still haven't told me what sort of trouble she's in."

"Well, she's currently at the prison," Tom admitted.

"Sixteen's too young for a job," Sean sighed, and rubbed at the back of his neck. "What did she do?"

"I don't think everything's quite on the up and up with the charges. I've been through enough to know when something seems off. She's no saint, but I don't think..."

"Tom. Why is she there?" Sean bit each word out individually.

"Murder."

For a moment, Sean blinked in silence. Then he swore, using several words and phrases that had also come from Gran, when she didn't think they could hear her.

"I didn't think you'd be pleased to hear that," Tom admitted.

"You said that you think something's off somewhere along the line," Sean began. "I'm not an expert on American law, but if you can get me copies of all the paperwork, I can take a look at what they have. Investigational procedures, the evidence in the case, transcripts of the trial if you can get it."

"You'll help?" Tom blinked, looking at Sean in shock.

"She's family, so the least I owe the girl is to find out if they followed the right procedures to get her where she is today. And if it will annoy that Travers fellow..."

"Have you met him?" Tom frowned again.

"Nae, Jean and Betsy went to try to figure out why you dropped in on a historical society. Betsy and myself both thought that the idea of a historical society located there was quite a bit off," Sean answered. "They had quite a few things to say about him, and... let's say he didn't leave a good impression on the pair of them." Sean grinned, remembering some of the things that they'd said. He still didn't know what a couple of the Chinese words Betsy'd used meant, but they couldn't have been very nice.

"A historical society? There?" Tom shook his head. "Absurd."

"Indeed. Now that I know why you're here, I have to agree - this has nothing to do with Xavier's school. This is family. I don't know if I'll like the girl, but I owe it to her to try to give her a fair chance. Those don't go to everybody in this world," Sean spoke again, one hand clenching into a fist. "Besides, you took good care of Theresa."

"She's family as well, even if she did grow up to be a bit of a do-gooder like you," Tom smirked. "Don't worry, we'll get that paperwork."

"Fair enough," Sean agreed. Part of him felt like he was somehow making a mistake, straying so far from the way things normally went. He wasn't supposed to be helping the criminals... but he wasn't helping criminals. Not really.

He was helping family.

End MD11: His Daughter's Chance.


	12. My Daughter's Evidence

Author: Lucinda

Rated t for teen

twelth in the "My Daughter" series

Disclaimer: Quentin Travers, Lilah Morgan, and Faith are the creation of Joss Whedon for the series BtVS and/or Angel the Series. Caine Marko, Tom and Sean Cassidy, and Charles Xavier are the creations of Marvel comics.

Distribution: with the rest of the My Daughter series.

Notes: AU after Faith turned herself in during S1 Angel/S4 BtVS.

md12..md12..md12..md12

Sean was swearing at the stack of papers. Not just a little bit, but using words that they'd learned from their Gran, words that would have been at home on the roughest docks, or among some of the nastier mercenaries that Tom had encountered. He had no idea that his law-abiding cousin knew language like that...

"Should I be asking what the papers did t' you?" Tom asked.

"These are copies of the police evidence and the transcripts from her trial," Sean glared at the offending pages. "Using this, it's possible to piece together some things about Faith's life."

"Is it her life that has you swearing, or her trial?" Tom settled on a chair, curious as to what his cousin had come up with about Faith.

"Things fell apart for her about two years ago. Increased problems at school, getting into fights, some property damage..." Sean shook his head, before commenting, "Most of which could be normal for someone who's just discovered mutant abilities, or is having a particularly violent batch of teen rebellion."

"What changed?" Tom knew that his cousin wouldn't be swearing like that for just a violent case of teen rebellion.

Sean glared at the pages again, "There was an attack on the apartment, and Eileen was taken to the hospital in critical condition. Faith disappeared. The police initially thought that she was killed, and searched for her body, the Boston police official theory became that she was abducted by the person or persons who did that to Eileen. Faith didn't reappear in the Boston system."

"She's in California, how'd she end up on the other side of the blasted country?" Tom frowned, and then muttered, "How'd she pay for it?"

"There's nothing in these papers until she reappeared in Sunnydale last year, late fall. Early December she's sitting in a nice little apartment paid for by the Mayor of Sunnydale, Richard Wilkins the third."

Tom's hand clenched around his shillelagh and he growled, "What did this Wilkins fellow have to do with my daughter? My underage daughter?"

"The rest of these papers allege that he turned her into his pet assassin," Sean thumped the pages, and shook his head. "OF course, the evidence is ridiculous. He paid for her apartment. The apartment had numerous weapons inside. Nice things. And Faith with no job, no family, and no education... it does look like something wasn't quite on the level."

"Is there any hard evidence of anything?" Tom's shillelagh was starting to glow.

"He paid for her apartment. He paid for her medical bills when she was injured. One of the people that she is alleged to have killed was part of his staff, the majority of the evidence involving her came from the Sunnydale police department," Sean paused, and then added, "The person who provided it retired from the police force due to injuries and is now the Mayor of Sunnydale."

"Paying for an apartment doesn't mean that... Doesn't Xavier pay bills for some of his students? They aren't turning into his assassins or whores," Tom snarled. The very idea that some bastard in Sunnydale was accusing his daughter of becoming some perverted mayor's assassin or girlfriend was disgraceful.

"He does on occasion, and as far as I know, none of the people who've gone through Xavier's work as assassins or whores. The mayor paid her bills, she didn't have an education, she didn't get along with a few other people in town... This isn't enough to get any sane jury in any nation I know of to convict the girl, let alone find her guilty of a half dozen murders!"

"Faith's sitting in prison right now, obviously there was a jury that found her guilty…" Tom paused in his rant as ugly memories and rumors resurfaced in his mind, "Or do y' think they were persuaded to claim a guilty verdict? How long a reach does that Travers fellow have?"

"What someone who wanted her locked up would need would be some persuasive people to paint a picture of her as a ravening, homicidal lunatic, vicious, amoral and ruthless. Then convince a couple people in the jury that she was far too dangerous to be let loose, let them convince the rest. Possibly put a little pressure on the other jurors, which they might or might not have had the ability to follow through on. If it's your family, few people are willing to see if threatened violence will actually appear," Sean sighed. "Y' shouldn't have just broke down that bastard Travers' door, y' should have broke open his head."

"And you the law officer telling us that we should have gone from simple property damage up to assault, maybe even manslaughter," Tom shook his head, almost managing a mocking smile.

"Th' man's only human by technicality, it's be closer to cleaning up a stain on society," Sean grumbled. "Removing a parasitic growth. A wart."

"Tempting as that might be, I'd rather help Faith first," Tom admitted.

"T' play the devil's advocate here, if she's still in jail when Travers gets his just rewards for all he's done, nobody could possibly believe that she had anything t' do with it," Sean paused. "I wonder… no. Law abiding citizen… officer of the law… I am not supposed to try to hire assassins."

Tom wasn't certain if his cousin was exaggerating to try to lighten the mood, or if he seriously wanted Quentin Travers to find himself six feet under, probably but not necessarily dead first. Then again, with this fellow, perhaps dead and with a stake through whatever shriveled version of a heart he might have would be safest.

* * *

Meanwhile, a young looking attorney from Wolfram & Hart, with decades of practice playing the fresh-faced enthusiastic innocent was raising questions about the authenticity of evidence used in a trial. With wide hazel eyes, the attorney breathlessly asked 'When did having someone pay for medical expenses become proof of murder?' and 'How does a fifteen year old girl learn to kill people and vanish their bodies?' and even more awkward, 'So the majority of the evidence came from the political successor to Mayor Wilkins? Isn't that some sort of…ummm… self interest… no, conflict of interest? Or at least a pretty solid motive for adding a bit of bias to his statements?'

There were no possible answers other than 'no, paying medical expenses is NOT proof of murder', 'there is nothing to show how a fifteen year old indifferent student could vanish for six months and turn up capable of murder and disappearing bodies' and 'yes, that would be a strong motive for bias or possibly altered evidence.' Grudgingly, permission was given to appeal the case, though the police departments insisted that they couldn't spare a lot of time or manpower to help the young attorney investigate.

"Oh, that's quite alright, officers. My family's been in law for a very long time, I think I can muddle through an appeal," Jacob DeWyatt assured them. "All I need is for someone to let me look at the evidence, and maybe make copies of some documents and reports…"

"So Wolfram & Hart had a good interning program? They make sure that you know how to get things done? Or do they just start you on the legwork until you work your way out of it?"

"Both, though I managed to escape doing legwork for everyone. There's a few people there with less seniority than me now," Jacob gave another youthful grin. Working among humans was so easy… He'd be able to play young enthusiastic fool for probably another century before he looked too old to carry it off. His family had been advisers and experts in legal codes for thousands of years. What he was less certain about were the reasons why Wolfram & Hart were working to get the Slayer released from prison. Ah well, it wasn't his job to ask too many 'why are we doing this' questions. It was his job to raise questions about her guilt and get her out of prison if legally possible.

If they wanted her out that much, there would be other measures available if legitimate legal means failed.

Idly, Jacob wondered if someone had manufactured the evidence that had sent her there, or leaned on the jurors. He could certainly understand the benefits of having the Slayer confined in one place, unable to go forth and fulfill her responsibilities. It would also make efforts to kill her easier, though more obvious. Though that wasn't his problem either. He didn't arrange wet-work, he stuck with strictly legitimate legal matters. His cousin Leon on the other hand… Leon wasn't an attorney.

As Jacob began looking over the evidence, he frowned. He'd been told that his young, naïve innocent act would be advisable, and that he might be able to spin things enough for a retrial. He hadn't been told just how scant the hard evidence was for the case, and just how much was more circumstantial than anything else. There was no hard evidence linking Faith to the murders. There was very little hard evidence that murders had been committed instead of unsolved disappearances. None of it looked like something that a fifteen or sixteen year old human girl with no known training would have been capable of committing. Knowing that she was a Slayer made things more believable from the technically possible aspect, but there was still no hard evidence for anything beyond Wilkins paying for Faith's expenses. Granted, that did suggest _something_ was going on, but the normal human's first thoughts wouldn't be pet assassin… More likely an illegitimate daughter or under aged lover.

Maybe he could find some things to add credibility to one or the other of those ideas? He wasn't about to manufacture evidence, but if he could get reasonable probability of a theory other than teen murderer it would make things simpler.

The more Jacob DeWyatt studied the evidence, the less he liked what he saw. This had every hallmark of political expediency trouncing truth, and while the Slayer might have killed those people, there was no supporting evidence. Part of him desperately wanted to know how Wilkins had managed to sway a Slayer to his side – the possibilities of such an idea were staggering. Another part wanted to know why the Council of Watchers had permitted such a thing… In prior centuries, they'd either kept Slayers sufficiently provided for and insulated as to remove such chances or eliminated them before they could be subjected to mortal legal systems.

Just what was going on here anyhow?

End My Daughter 12: My Daughter's Evidence.


	13. For My Daughter

author: Lucinda

rating: Y-14 for violence

thirteenth in the 'My Daughter' series

main characters: Sean and Tom Cassidy

disclaimer: Quentin Travers, Lilah Morgan, and Faith are the creation of Joss Whedon for the series BtVS and/or Angel the Series. Caine Marko, Tom and Sean Cassidy, and Charles Xavier are the creations of Marvel comics.

distribution: with the rest of the My Daughter series.

notes: AU after Faith turned herself in during S1 Angel/S4 BtVS.

.................

Faith stretched, feeling her shoulders crackle as she sat in her cell. Prison was boring. She'd had enough time to think about what had happened, and where she'd messed up. About how the Mayor had used her, taking advantage of the way the Council sucked hard. About what being the... a Slayer really meant. It didn't mean becoming a politician's weapon of choice. Not the Mayors, not the Council's... not anybody's. She was a person, not a weapon.

She'd have to do better in the future. Slay the demons and vampires, not political rivals. Remember that killing humans caused a lot of problems, so it might be better to just beak both legs of human scum and leave them in a dark alley in the demon districts.

She'd have to avoid doing anything else that would make it painful to look at herself in the mirror. In a way that had nothing to do with bruises, of course. Which would have to wait for her to get out of this overgrown concrete box. She was done with her time out.

This Slayer was ready to get back to business.

"You haven't slipped your leash and skipped the country, have you Faith?" Guard Thompson was struggling not to laugh as she peered between the bars to look at Faith.

"Last night I had a dream that I was lounging on a beach with a couple naughty half naked pirates and a bottle of rum, but I woke up here. If I had the choice between a couple hot pirates asking me 'What're yr orders, Cap'n?' and staring at the crack in the wall here? This place hasn't been a nightmare, but I'd take the pirates and rum any day," Faith grinned.

"But here you are," now Guard Thompson was snickering. "Did one of them look a bit like Johnny Depp?"

Faith grinned, pulling one leg up to wrap her arms around her knee as she sat on her narrow bed. "Yeah. Why the sudden interest in whether or not I skipped out?"

"There's a British guy in a suit that was having an argument with our boss. Apparently, the suit's boss back in England got kidnapped, and this dimwit wants to blame you," the expression on Thompson's face suggested all sorts of things about her feelings on this suit. "So my boss wanted to make sure that you're still here."

"I'm still here, and if I wasn't, England would probably be pretty low on my list of destinations," Faith shook her head. "What did he think I was going to do anyhow? Rip the door out of the frames, walk past you and all the other guards on shift with your big sticks, the shock sticks, and the guns that some of you carry, either grab your keys or rip out a couple more solid doors, and then run across the courtyard to the parking garage where someone might have been careless enough to leave their keys in the vehicle so that I can drive out? And then hop on a plane to England to grab his boss?"

"The parking garage had a gate on it," commented Thompson. "And how you'd get a plane flight in your bright orange jumpsuit is another good question."

Faith glanced at it, and then grinned, "Don't I need a passport to leave the country?"

She didn't want to admit that she had thought about leaving like that. She hadn't for several reasons. She was almost certain she could rip the door to her cell open, but there were several guards in this block, and at least one of them would have a gun, with permission to use it if someone was trying to escape. The doors between cell blocks were heavier, more solid and Faith doubted that she'd be able to force it open unless the hinges gave out. She knew that there were guns that could be fired into the courtyard. While she could leave the cell, she didn't know if she could get out of the prison alive if she took the direct route.

Chuckling, Thompson waved off Faith's question. "Don't worry about that. You're still here, so you couldn't have grabbed the guy from England."

"If the suit squawking at your boss is the same guy who showed up last month to accuse me of breaking into some London Historical society, then he works for the guys who gave a lot of the evidence that put me in here. Why would I want his boss?"

"Good point," for a few moments, Thompson was quiet. "I think I'd rather have a pair of pirates and some rum too."

* * *

In a small hotel that had the most interesting occupants, Tom Cassidy's cellular phone rang. He flipped it open, giving a soft, "Cassidy."

'I thought you'd like to know that I've caught the wild goose. We've already had a few long chats about several things,' The voice that came through the phone carried a hint of reverberation, something that could have been blamed on the connection. Of course, she had the same quality in person, when she felt like being herself…

"Did y' have any troubles catching the bastard?" he asked.

Mystique's only answer was a chuckle.

"I'll take that t' mean nothing that y' couldn't handle quite easily," he grinned. "I do appreciate this."

'I agreed to do this favor for you because I was curious. Now I'll keep it up because he's an annoying worm.'

There was a pause, and Tom thought he heard something thumping on the other end.

'Your daughter sounds quite interesting. I'd like to meet her, one day.'

"I'm hoping that any arrangements for introducing her to my associates could take place somewhere more comfortable than where she's been staying," Tom admitted.

'Of course. I'll be in touch.'

Tom sighed as a dial tone echoed in his ear. "That Mystique… stubborn, headstrong, up to her neck in trouble…"

As he put the phone down, he debated the merits of telling his cousin Sean what he'd done. After a bit of thought, he decided that he might do that… several years down the road. Maybe he should be more concerned about what sort of trouble Faith and Mystique could get into together…

He just hoped that he hadn't somehow made a mistake.

End MD13: For My Daughter.


	14. Her Colleague's Daughter's Tormentor

The call from Tom had come at a good time. Mystique had been lounging beside a swimming pool, disguised as an attractive blonde with a little white bikini. Ordinarily, she would be very angry to receive a phone call when she was in the middle of a job. This time, her job was to impersonate someone and be very visible lounging in a luxurious resort for a week. A week of spa treatments, sunbathing, a bit of shopping, and relaxation, catered by blue ribbon chefs. She'd stayed in houses smaller than the suite at this hotel.

Mystique had wondered just why Emma Frost was paying her a nice sum of money to impersonate her on vacation, but hadn't asked. The logical reasoning was that Emma Frost had plans for that week, and not only did she not want anyone to know what those plans were, she wanted a rather visible and solid alibi. Visible and solid enough to pay for an impersonator and pay for the vacation that Mystique was currently enjoying. All she had to remember was to only wear white and revealing, and to stick to Emma Frost's dietary preferences, and to be noticed.

It was very easy to be noticed looking like Emma Frost. There weren't as many jobs like this as she'd like...

Tom Cassidy had asked her to help him out with a few things regarding his daughter. She'd known that he had one with his ex wife, but she had been under the impression that the ex-wife had full custody and had denied Tom visitation rights due to his criminal record. Apparently, his daughter had been caught up in some sort of mess that traced back to a man named Quentin Travers, who ran an international organization based in London England. An organization that claimed to be a historical society, kept tabs on girls, and told those girls that they were destined to fight monsters. A man who viewed these girls as expendable tools.

While Mystique viewed most people as expendable tools, she disliked the idea of raising girls to be expendable weapons. Especially if they weren't training them to survive and fight in the modern world, but something closer to the middle ages crossed with the darker folklore.

After a few moment's thought, she'd agreed to find this particular goose and get some information out of him. The fact that Tom didn't particularly care if the man was injured or maimed was an added bonus. He'd quite understood that she was in the middle of something when he called and couldn't start the goose chase until Saturday.

She hadn't told Tom what sort of job she was committed to until Saturday. It was bad form to talk about one's jobs, especially when they weren't finished.

Saturday, when she was no longer being Emma Frost, Mystique looked over the information that Tom had sent to one of her emails. It contained some information on Travers - not a full biography, but the basics. A recent photograph, full name and date of birth, the address of his organization and where in that building his office was located, and the fact that he was presumed fully and genetically normal human.

More than enough for her to get started, especially since she wasn't on someone else's timetable for this.

Changing to someone else had enabled her to travel to England with no troubles. While Emma Frost turned heads, a rounded old woman with thick glasses and thinning grey curls was ignored by almost everyone. Changing into a twenty-something college student with a clipboard allowed her to get an initial survey of the area around the building where Travers worked, and to get a good look at her target. The old building looked like a well-preserved example of Victorian architecture, except for the brand new wooden door and frame, which didn't go at all with the rest of the building.

She impersonated the janitor to get a better look inside, giving the real one a few hundred pounds and pointing the fellow towards a decent pub. Nobody paid attention to janitors, and it let her get an idea of the building's layout, and the chance to look for defenses.

By the end of the day, Mystique had learned a few things, not all of them equally useful. Tom had left quite the impression and caused the need for the poorly matched new door. There were no interior surveillance cameras. The janitor was worked very hard and not paid enough. They had much better quality tea on the second floor than in the common lounge and awful stuff that would be prepared and served to visitors. Nobody liked Quentin Travers. They were currently spying on thousands of girls and teenagers across the globe, claiming that they had the potential to become Slayers, and some of them had been removed from their families to better 'raise them according to the Council's traditions.' And that they weren't satisfied with Tom's daughter Faith being in prison, they wanted her dead.

Before the end of her day as the janitor was done, she had decided to kill Quentin Travers. Oh, not here, and not before she'd wrung every last bit of useful information out of him about everything, but he would die. Slowly and in great pain.

The Council of Watcher's real janitor was too hung over to go in the next day, so Mystique took his place again, encouraging him to rest with a well placed tap to the back of the head. Had he been alert and paying attention, it wouldn't have done any more than make him angry. With his wobbly, hung over misery, it put him right back unconscious. Checking with a few scraps of things written about the apartment – no, in England they were flats, she had to remember to use the right terms for the country she was in – she forged a note in his own scrawl that he'd called in sick and had the next two days off work.

She took photographs of the file on Faith, as well as the fragmentary plans to kill her. The page working out that if they succeeded in Faith's death within the next four weeks, the new Slayer would be Miranda in New Zealand got photographed as well, even if she wasn't quite certain what to think about it yet. It would be something to question Travers about once they were somewhere private.

Her explorations uncovered a locked cabinet. The lock was so simple that she was probably in almost as fast as someone with a key would have been. Once opened, the cabinet proved to contain several different drugs. One was some sort of strange almost green fluid that she was unfamiliar with. She grabbed half a dozen, intending to have it analyzed later. Others included a variety of sedatives, antibiotics, and anesthetics – none of which should be in an office.

In the end, Mystique took a simple approach to removing Travers. She used a sedative that had been stored in a locked room to render him unconscious. Some ropes and a few coats turned him into a portable bundle. She put in a few hours of shuffling papers wearing Travers' face to keep his apparent routine. Travers appeared to leave at five, just as he had the past few days. She slipped back into the building, changed to someone a bit stronger, a burly looking workman in faded blue overalls with a nametag reading Dobson. The next step was wrapping Travers in a stained, old carpet that had been set aside for disposal and carrying the whole bundle out the back door.

She even had a couple of the people in the building hold doors open for 'Dobson.'

The old carpet was shoved into the back of a hauling van and 'Dobson' began a slow drive out of London. The bundle of carpet was pulled out at a trash facility, minus Travers. After giving him another dose of sedative, Mystique went back to the edge of London, used the cover of dark to shove the unconscious Travers into the boot of her rented car, and returned the van to the company where she'd borrowed it from earlier in the day. She wasn't certain if anyone would even realize that it hadn't remained in the parking lot the whole time.

When Travers finally woke up, he was already tied to a solid old chair in a remote hunting lodge, stripped down to his boxers and socks. While the inevitable effects of cold, embarrassment, and uncertainty would help in the situation, Mystique's primary motivation had been to search him for any form of communications device or weapon. The only light came from a couple candles that she'd lit, and none of those were positioned in front of him. Mystique had no reason to let him get a good look around him, and the dim light would put most people on edge. Nervous people were often easier to interrogate.

The first thing he tried to do was stand up. This failed as Mystique had tied him to the chair using solid, sturdy rope, of a rough synthetic fiber that would bite into his flesh when he struggled; it also had the added benefits of being tough, strong, and resistant to burning. No ordinary human would be able to break it, and she'd ensured that he didn't have any weapons left. The handgun that he'd had in his jacket had been pitiful, he'd also had a good dagger, a multi-tool with two knife blades, and a wooden stake. She'd placed the whole pile, along with his watch and cellular phone, into a pile on a table across the room.

"Whaaa? Where 'm I an' how'd I get here?" The sedatives hadn't completely cleared his system, leaving him a bit groggy, his words slurred and lacking the crisp, condescending precision that he had used at the office building.

Letting her voice slip back to its natural doubled tones, Mystique could feel herself smiling as she answered, "Where is unimportant. Just think of this as the last place that you'll ever be. I brought you here so that we could have a nice, long conversation."

Quentin Travers began swearing and cursing in a variety of languages that included French, German, Russian, Greek, Latin and Chinese as well as at least four others that Mystique couldn't identify. Among the insults, she gathered that he thought he'd been abducted by some sort of demon.

The sheer scope and variety of the insults, curses and languages used was actually quite impressive. It wouldn't save him, but she was impressed. She was even flexible enough that some of the phrases were things that she could do, if she were so inclined.

"Creative. It appears that you have some skill as a linguist, Quentin. As impressive as your range of profanity is, you will still die. But feel free to shout, scream and curse all you want," she could feel herself smiling again as she finished, "Nobody will hear you except me."

"Why are you doing this? Tell me, you serpent-tongued snot-sucking demon!" Even as he made his arrogant demand, Quentin Travers was attempting to twist his hands enough to loosen the ropes. "Don't you know who I am?"

"You're Quentin Travers, son of Charles Quentin Travers and Mary Elaine Bonham-Travers. You're fifty three years old, pay your taxes to almost the amount due, and run an operation that's no more a historical society than I'm a Russian prima ballerina. I know exactly who you are," Mystique purred, not feeling the slightest bit of guilt over her exaggerated confidence. She knew enough to grab him, and the interrogation would tell her more. Everything that she saw told her that he was a petty, self-important man who enjoyed holding power over others, and was addicted to that feeling of control.

"As for why? Maybe I just felt like it. Nobody knows that you've been taken. Nobody will look for you," she moved around to where he might see her, or at least a shape moving in the darkness, perhaps the glint of her eyes. "Nobody will mourn your demise."

"You can't do this to me!"

She laughed, not surprised by his reaction. It was common for those who let power go to their heads to think that nobody would dare move against them. That there would never be consequences or punishment. Sometimes she had the pleasure of being the one that proved this idea wrong. "I already have you. If you answer my questions, then you live longer. If you try to lie, to escape, or even if you just start to bore me, I will make you hurt. When even that doesn't amuse me any longer, you die."

As the man stared at her in horror, Mystique chuckled. She had a long, colorful past with a variety of jobs, many of them illegal to varying degrees. Sometimes she'd done horrible things to survive, other times she'd done it for money. This was starting to feel like a favor for a friend… and like justice.

"Let's start with a simple question. Tell me the official purpose of the Council of Watchers. The version that you agreed to when you joined."

There would be questions about his Council. Questions about the girls they were watching, using as many names as she could so that when she asked about Faith, he wouldn't know that Faith was the whole purpose for Mystique grabbing him. She would ask questions about nursery rhymes and old wives tales and campfire stories. There would be questions about bank accounts and weapons and drugs, including that mysterious greenish one. Questions about the building, about his car, about his mother's health. Things that she really wanted to know, things that could be useful, and things to keep him off-balance.

This was going to be fun… at least, fun for Mystique.

end MD14: Her Colleague's Daughter's Tormentor


	15. to Plan Ahead

...

A naked blue woman with scales glared at a human looking man in red glasses, her voice oddly doubled as she snarled, "You think that they will accept you because you look like one of them? Think again! Why should it matter how we look?"

Swirls of fog covered them both, pierced by flashes of light in red and white and bright gold that wasn't fire.

A loud wail came from everywhere, shaking the fog and lights away, leaving only blackness. The noise faded, and she could hear her first Watcher's voice. "A Slayer fights against evil. A Slayer protects those who can not protect themselves. A Slayer must learn and adapt or perish."

"Adapt or perish."

Faith turned on her narrow cot, beads of sweat over her body. The images didn't feel like a normal dream. She'd far rather be dreaming about scruffy pirates calling her Captain, and drinking rum on white sand. She'd even rather be dreaming about steamy clubs down south, with live alligator wrestling as entertainment.

Adapt or perish.

Faith woke with a gasp, her hands clenched into fists. Only the normal middle of the night prison sounds, with people snoring, and a couple guards walking. No screaming, no voices talking about appearances or acceptance. Nobody telling her about a Slayer's duty. No voices telling her to adapt.

She didn't bother going back to sleep. It might have been a Slayer dream, suggesting or warning about things yet to happen. It might have been her wee little underdeveloped conscience, guilty about what she did. Or maybe it was the meatloaf at dinner.

Her father visited that morning, walking in with a limp, leaning heavily on what was either a very solid cane or a slender cudgel. They talked a bit about older family history, stories that his grandmother had told him and his cousin Sean about 'the old country and the little people' when he'd been a boy. Stories about trouble that he and his cousin had found. A few stories about her cousin Theresa, who was Sean's daughter and attending a school outside of New York now.

And when the guard stopped listening, eyes rolling at all the stories about family and folklore and silly teenage tricks, her father had flashed a wicked grin, and murmured, "Did I mention that my cousin Sean works in law enforcement, and feels that the case against you was as solid as Swiss cheese? Or that most of the evidence was as solid as tissue paper?"

"No, you hadn't mentioned that at all..." Faith had found herself smirking. "But what about the whole confession part?"

"As he put it, a teenage girl, recently arrived in a strange town with no family, no job, nowhere to stay... and then badgered by the police for almost fourteen hours before confessing? That sounds like the strategies of a witch-hunt, rather than proper procedure."

Faith blinked, a corner of her mind wanting to shout out that she had done it. That she had killed people in Sunnydale. "I guess that isn't the normal way to go, is it?"

He paused, his eyes flicking to the bored guard before he mentioned, "Someone I know had a few words with someone you know of across the pond. Turns out that he was expecting a new girl to take over your old position in a few weeks."

For a few moments, Faith just sat there, wondering what he could be talking about. Who would she know that he'd have someone talking to? Wait, he'd said someone that she knew of, not that she knew. And what position...

Adapt or perish.

"He thought that someone new would be Called... called for the position?" Faith whispered, her insides feeling very cold. If what her father had said meant a new Slayer... she was in excellent health. Someone would have to kill her for a new Slayer to be Called. And if she was sitting in prison, she would be very easy for an assassin to locate...

"There's apparently a high turnover rate for interns in historical research," his voice sounded flat, but his accent was very strong.

"Part of that might be the working conditions," Faith mumbled, trying not to shout at the idea that Travers wanted her killed. She knew that she'd failed in her duty... failed and betrayed and spat on it. But for him to arrange for her to be killed... to arrange for it to happen now? Why not just make certain she'd never wake up from her coma? Why not make her disappear after leaving Sunnydale?

"Aye, the city life isn't for everyone," he nodded. "But it isn't that easy to give up on looking into history once you've got a taste for it."

"I guess it does grow on some people," Faith agreed. She wasn't certain if he was still meaning Slaying, if he meant actual history, or if he was just bull-shitting to kill time. She wondered who he might know that was making Travers' life miserable.

She wondered if it was safe to let herself hope.

"You're telling me that we've been searching everywhere, and found no sign of Travers. Can you elaborate on that just a little?" The senior Watcher's shock was clear.

"According to his housekeeper, he left for work Thursday, as normal. There was a call from his office to his wife around noon, and then… nothing. She assumed that it was just another one of the longer trips that he's taken on occasion for what she called Society business. The housekeeper is under the belief that Travers is part of the top level of a Historical Society. There have been trips in the past, with two to five days being normal, and a few that were several weeks. She has no useful information," relayed Milton Hayer.

"According to his wife, he hadn't mentioned any plans to go anywhere in the near future, though their second daughter is graduating in June, and they were planning to collect her from University. She was also quite irritated at him – apparently last Friday was their anniversary, and he ignored the whole thing. No present, no card, not even a nice dinner and a few words." He paused to observe the winces of the other married Watchers. "As you may have guessed, Mrs. Travers is quite irritated at Quentin. She assured me that if she had any idea where the wretched, empty-headed bog-brain was hiding himself, she'd pry him out from under his hedge, in bloody pieces if need be."

"A major anniversary?" murmured one of the Watchers.

"Their thirtieth, I believe," answered another.

"Has anyone seen him since… well, since he left our building?" demanded the elderly Sophia Wheatley.

The general consensus proved that none of the Watchers had seen or heard from Travers since Thursday afternoon, when he'd left their own Headquarters. The Travers household knew nothing helpful. The police had nothing. The banks refused to comment on their account-holders business, citing his right to privacy. None of the hospitals had treated a Quentin Travers or an unidentified male of his description, including blood type. Various junior Watchers had been sent to double check an assortment of unidentified bodies, none of which had been Travers.

A voice from the back cut through the clamor, "Why not try a bit of magic to locate the bloody fool?"

"As he is the Head of the Council, Travers had spent the last ten years making himself all but impossible to locate, track, or observe through magical means. To foil spying, don't you know," murmured another senior Watcher.

"We are absolutely certain that he isn't at home. He isn't visiting one of his sons, or his eldest daughter. He does not currently have a mistress. So far as we have determined, he has not contacted any of the Council or our usual channels of communication or informants. The police have been informed of his disappearance, and have given us no information. His car was left in the usual garage, as has been his habit during work hours."

"Then we have no choice but to assume foul play, possibly demonic involvement," murmured another senior Watcher.

"We must appoint an Acting Head of the Council. While I do not suggest that we give up our efforts to find Travers, his absence must not paralyze the Council," wheezed a very senior watcher.

Names were suggested and debated over the next few hours. The whole matter of possible ways to find Travers was lost in favor of the new power-play. After all, to twist an old saying – the King is dead, long live the King. There would be a new Head of the Council soon, only Acting Head at first, but in the last few centuries, only three Acting Heads had not transitioned into full Headship, and two of those had only been stopped by death.

The fact that Quentin Travers was most likely dead at the hands, talons, and possibly teeth of some horrendous demon was a tragic fact accepted by most of the Watchers. He had known the risk of death by demon – Travers was a Watcher, they all knew that risk. Best have someone take charge and make certain the same couldn't happen again.

End My Daughter 15: To Plan Ahead


	16. Turning A Corner

md16..md16..md16..

Faith had been dreaming again last night. There had been that blue scaly woman again, the one that thought it shouldn't matter what they looked like, but knew that it did. Faith really wondered who she meant when she said 'we', and if she was going to be a problem. There had also been a group of handsome pirates, but that had been a whole separate sort of dream, and she wasn't worried in the least about that one.

But most of her morning had been spent wondering if, between Lilah Morgan and whatever deviousness Wolfram & Hart were cooking up and whatever her dad and his cousin were digging up, she would end up walking out of this place. Free.

If they did let her out, what would she do? The fact that she'd still wind up in fights with the supernatural baddies as a given - she wouldn't get out of that until she died. But could she keep out of trouble? Get a job that would support her? Find herself a sexy pirate or two of her very own?

If the Watchers' Council would continue trying to kill her. If they would ever stop until she died and they had their more appropriate Slayer to push around like a little wind-up toy. How much she'd get hurt until they won. Because Faith couldn't see how they wouldn't win. They only had to get really lucky once - she had to get lucky or be just that good every time.

Everybody's luck ran out sometime.

Though if she wasn't alone, that would help. If she had other people watching her back, if she could trust them to watch her back. But if she couldn't trust her dad, how much chance did she really have anyhow?

"You have a visitor, Faith," the guard called from down the hallway.

"Is it too much to hope that it's a sexy, scruffy pirate?" Faith called back, rubbing at her temple. Her thoughts had been giving her a headache, along with a nagging feeling of something very bad approaching. Not like walking up the hallway or outside the wall approaching, but like the approach of winter or night - time, not distance. It was probably a Slayer thing, unless she was going paranoid.

"Your legal shark again. Some people might call her sexy, but she isn't scruffy, and not a pirate," the guard replied. "You planning on leaving us soon?"

"What's to stay for? The bed's hard, the food's bland, the decor sucks, no cute guys, and not much privacy," Faith grinned. "I'm sure I could find a better place elsewhere."

"Then you'll need to pay rent," the guard snickered, finally reaching the door. "Come on, you know the procedure."

It didn't take long before Faith was slipping into the uncomfortable plastic chair behind the bullet proof glass. Lilah Morgan was there, a smug smile on her perfectly made-up face. It reminded Faith of a mask, thin, probably brittle, but well suited to preventing any sign of real emotion from being visible.

"Good to see you again, Miss Wilkins. Or perhaps I should call you Miss Cassidy?" Lilah's smile showed white, even teeth but no warmth. "I must say that your father's family leaves quite the impressive trail of records and opinions."

"I haven't had much contact with that side of the family. My parents divorced, which I'm sure you found in the research," Faith considered the company that the woman worked for, and wondered just how much they had found. For that matter, she didn't know how much of what her dad the mutant criminal – though he preferred the term political dissident – or his cousin the mutant law enforcement officer did was known and what was secret. For that matter, Faith was sure that there were vast amounts of what they'd been up to that her Dad hadn't mentioned. "Mom didn't approve of some of what Dad got up to."

"Your father's come to the attention of some of the more senior members of the firm, the local branches senior partners, though not the true Senior Partners of the company, if you follow the distinction. His cousin has also caught the attention of highly placed individuals, though in a different way. Both are very memorable." Lilah paused before asking, "Are you familiar with the older Celtic mythology or stories of elemental creatures?"

Faith gave the woman a look, wondering just how a Slayer who'd had a Watcher could manage to remain completely ignorant of any sort of mythology, especially when it contained potential monsters. "Let's say I know a few things, but I'm probably iffy on some of the finer details."

"Your father's side has caused a lot of people to take notice. Not all of them are what we'd call unimportant," Lilah offered.

Faith considered those words and felt a chill. Wolfram & Hart weren't nice people. In fact, a good number of their employees probably ate nice people. If her Dad's side had made some of those sort sit up and take notice… not even remotely comforting. Adding in the idea that some things ran in families? "And how does this bring you to visit me here? I've heard bad things about a lot of office décor, but I bet it looks nicer than here."

"Paperwork is in processing right now to arrange your release. Some of the more influential members of the firm would like you to remember our part in getting you out of here, when it comes time for your future legal needs," Lilah smiled. "Or if your relatives need legal counsel. We take a large number of cases that are what we might call complicated or delicate."

Faith had a few opinions about the wisdom of accepting anything from Wolfram & Hart, and those opinions could be summed up as 'not smart, not wise, and consider all the other options very carefully first.' Even beyond the idea of counting your fingers after shaking hands with them. If they had an interest in her family, or maybe her Dad's family would be more accurate, then they were probably plotting something or three or five things. They also weren't the sort of people who took well to a blunt 'hell no'. Wolfram & Hart would be more likely to consider those words a challenge, and to try to arrange things so that approaching them seemed like the best or maybe only resort.

Thinking carefully, Faith gave her own smile. "I doubt I'd be able to forget what your firm has done for me. Everything they've done."

Lilah's smile was a bit stiffer, "We can't ask for more than that, can we?"

Watching the lawyer, Faith couldn't keep from wishing she were in a simple fight to the death. A simple, obvious threat she could understand and defeat – a hungry vampire, a rampaging werewolf, even a burning building. Lilah Morgan and Wolfram & Hart were much more dangerous, and a lot harder to figure out. "The idea of getting out of here has some appeal."

"I'm sure your father will be able to pick you up when everything's finished processing. Unless anything comes up, I'd suspect you'll get the news within the next three days." Lilah Morgan slid out of her chair, once more all smiles. "I do enjoy being able to share good news once in a while."

"Everybody likes good news," Faith murmured. She wondered just what the law firm was up to. What they'd found about her father's family. How they expected to benefit from this. If she'd wind up having been safer in prison with the Council trying to kill her. "Three days?"

"Maybe less. Good luck with your new life," Lilah Morgan left the visitors' area.

Faith watched Lilah leave, wondering why she felt cold all of a sudden. Maybe there were just drafts. Maybe she was just being paranoid.

Nah, they were up to something. She just hoped she'd survive whatever they were plotting.

End My Daughter 16: Turning a Corner


End file.
